Fever
by Sentimental Star
Summary: **COMPLETE** It was the fever's fault, really. The fever was why he had been so terribly hard on his younger brother...--Brotherfic. Moviebased-- --PREQUEL TO NIGHTTIME DEMONS--
1. Origins of Fear

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis. Some dialogue belongs to Disney and Walden Media who are responsible for allowing this wonderful film to be created.

**A/N: **Another requested fic, this time for **_Claudette _**who had been interested in seeing a multi-chapter fic set in _LWW. _ So _**Claudette**, _this one's dedicated to you :grins:.

This first chapter is a sort of missing scene from the movie that takes place after Lucy's first visit to the wardrobe. I know Lucy, Susan, and Peter do not see the Professor (in the movie) until after Edmund enters Narnia for the first time, but I felt it best to use him in this case. As for the scene itself, when Edmund first shouts at Peter, the look on Peter's face really got me. And with Susan's and Lucy's responses, I felt so bad for him. This scene expands upon that row.

No, it's not another P.O.V. fic, I'm afraid :smiles sheepishly:. I'm keeping that one for _Nighttime Demons_, and perhaps other fics that follow. I actually found the inspiration for writing this when I started wondering why Peter seemed to go so incredibly hard on Edmund, much more than on his sisters at points, and so, the fic evolved from there. As for the medical references, I'm no doctor so I'm sorry if I got anything wrong, but I hope that won't deter anyone from reading it.

Anyways…Think of it as a sort of prequel to _Nighttime Demons_, although it can be considered a standalone piece, as well :winks:. Enjoy!

"**Speech"**

**/Thoughts/**

**_Memories_ (as well as emphasis)**

**Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.**

**.:Fever:.**

Chapter I: Origins of Fear

By Sentimental Star

(Professor Kirke's House, Some Hours After Dinner)

"_Why can't you just do as you're told_?" _he demanded, angry and frightened all at once, hearing the tears in his own voice and not liking it._

_As their mother hushed the younger boy, Edmund looked up at him, still breathing heavily, and gave a half-hearted glare. He did not say anything, but the look he gave him spoke for itself._

_Feeling the tears burn at the back of his eyes, he whirled and slammed the door of the shelter shut, plunging them all into darkness._

Softly clearing his throat, Peter leaned his forehead against the cool glass of a window in the library where he sat in a window seat and quickly dashed away a single tear as he gazed out into the darkness beyond, thoughts in the past.

"_When will you grow up?" he asked in exasperation, voice soft._

_His younger brother's reaction startled him. "Shut up!" Edmund exploded, stalking over to him and yelling into his face, forcing him to back up. "You think that you're Dad, but you're not!"_

_He felt his eyes widen as he caught a quick glimpse of the angry tears that rushed into the ten-year-old's dark eyes before the younger boy whirled away and rushed into the hallways beyond the spare room._

_And something cracked in him at that._

_Susan's response did not help much. "Well that was nicely handled," she advised him darkly, before turning and marching away._

_He felt the tension in his shoulders build, vaguely aware his face was stricken._

"_But…it really was there," Lucy insisted, causing him to quickly school his features and turn to face her. She looked crushed._

_He gave her a stern look. "Susan's right, Lucy," he told her firmly. "That's enough."_

Another clearing of his throat and a quiet sniff as he dashed away a second tear, then…

"I say!" came the surprised exclamation from behind him, making Peter start and hurriedly turn around to face the entrance to the library. "Young man, what are you doing here?"

With a white beard, small, circular glasses perched on his nose, and a large tuft of wild white hair, dressed in a crimson and gold evening robe, the older man in front of him could only be the Professor.

With Mrs. Macready's order of, "_Above all, there will be no disturbing of the Professor_," running through his head, Peter hurriedly stood to his feet. "I'm sorry, sir," he apologized rapidly, "I didn't realize--"

"Oh, don't worry, dear boy," Professor Kirke interrupted him warmly, waving his hand and moving to examine one of the shelves, "you just startled me, that's all. I did not expect you or your siblings to come in here for a few days at least." As he spoke, the Professor lightly ran his fingers over the spines of the books, apparently looking for one in particular. "Ah! Here it is!"

He turned to Peter who had slowly resumed his seat, facing the man, and smiled at him. A decidedly mischievous light sparkled in his extraordinary blue eyes, a look that the boy had seen in very few other adults. Waving the rather thick book at the teenager, the Professor continued, "Jonathan Swift's _Gulliver's Travels_. I always thought it was a marvelous bit of work, if only the critics did not insist upon doing an in-depth study of its contents." He examined it, turning the book end over end. "As it is, I've never seen a better portrayed image of European government."

Peter managed a smile. "I have read it, sir."

The Professor cast him an approving look. "Very good. At least these schools have gotten _something_ right."

The teenager managed another smile, but it was small and tired.

Apparently, the Professor noticed. Coming over to the window where Peter sat, he placed the book on a nearby a table and stood in front of the boy. "You are not as happy as I mean you to be," he spoke up, voice soft. It was not a question.

Peter glanced at him, before looking down and shaking his head, "No, sir," he whispered.

The Professor perched on the arm of a nearby chair. "I don't suppose you'd enlighten an old man, hmm?" It was asked gently.

Peter gazed distantly out the window. "I suppose it all began three years ago…"

(Flashback, Three Years)

"_Mamma, why are we here? Mamma?" five-year-old Lucy lightly shook their mother's arm, trying to squirm out of her lap._

_The doctor's office was not exactly the most interesting place in the world for an energetic little girl such as Lucy. Peter himself, for all his ten years, was starting to become bored. He had even started counting the number of fleur-de-lis that made up the pattern of the wallpaper._

_Susan alone seemed contented, playing with one of the dolls their parents had allowed her to bring along—and she was a year younger than him. Lucy's own doll lay discarded on top of their mother's purse._

_Mamma's face was very white, and she lifted Lucy back into her lap from where the younger girl had begun to slip, handing her a picture book she had fished out of her purse. "Waiting for Eddy to get better. Now, hush, darling."_

_As Lucy was distracted by the picture book, Peter turned and looked at the door that separated him from his little brother and father, young brow furrowed in confusion and worry. He could hear very faint, very muffled voices from behind the door (his father's and the doctor's), but could not make out what they were saying._

_Impatiently, he tapped his fingers on his leg._

_Mamma and Daddy wouldn't tell him or Su or Lu what was wrong with Eddy. All he knew was that Eddy had gotten sick and fallen. He didn't know why, though, or what it was that was making him so sick that they had to immediately take him to the doctor. Mamma and Daddy wouldn't say._

_So now, Peter was left to worry and to try to figure out what was going on. There was a very strange tightness in his chest whenever he thought of what had happened to his little brother, and he couldn't identify it. Whatever it was, he didn't like it._

_Suddenly, the heavy wooden door creaked open as the doctor exited, and Peter jumped to his feet as Susan stopped playing with her doll, and Mamma and Lucy looked up from the picture book._

_The doctor smiled sadly at them and turned, holding open the door for Daddy as he came through, holding Eddy in his arms._

_Peter's throat felt funny for some reason as he looked at Edmund, who was clinging to their father's neck and shaking softly._

_The doctor began to speak, directing his words at Mamma who had stood with Lucy in her arms, but so that even Peter and Susan could hear, "Your son has scarlet fever, Mrs. Pevensie."_

_There was a small gasp as Mamma's free hand flew to her mouth. Peter felt himself tense. /Scarlet fever? Don't people **die** from scarlet fever? But this is Eddy! He can't…/_

_Peter's frantic thoughts were interrupted as the doctor continued speaking, "I would guess he's had it for about a week by now. Were there no signs of it? No rash, no fever, no fatigue?"_

_Their mother was very pale when she spoke. "I noticed a small rash a couple of days ago, and he did seem more tired than usual, but I didn't think…" She looked, Peter realized with surprise, very close to tears._

"_He has scarlet fever, Mrs. Pevensie," the doctor repeated gently, "had you waited any longer to bring him to see me, it could have developed into rheumatic fever."_

_All color left Mamma's face as she sank down into the chair again. Lucy, who had the least idea of what was going on, started crying. "Mamma! Mamma!" she pleaded, scared._

_Susan, moving now, hurried over to their little sister and mother, and took Lucy from Mamma's arms into her own, hugging her. "Shh. Shh. It's all right, Lucy, Mamma's just startled," she murmured._

_Peter didn't think Mamma was "just startled." To him, she looked as scared as Lucy._

_Papa placed a strong hand on her shoulder, still holding Edmund, and turned back to the doctor. It was then that Peter himself started feeling scared, for Daddy's face was very pale, too. "Is there nothing to be done?" he demanded. But his voice shook a little._

_Peter curled his hands into his sleeves and swallowed uncomfortably, feeling tears burn at the back of his eyes but refusing to let them fall. What did Daddy mean?_

_The doctor looked slightly unsure. "There might be a way," he hedged, "However--"_

_He cut himself off as his eyes suddenly fell on Peter. The ten-year-old, abruptly feeling very much exposed, quickly turned away. He swallowed again, shielding his eyes and trying to do the same with his emotions._

_It didn't work too well._

"_Peter…" the voice was faint and weak and scratchy, and came from the small, shivering bundle in their father's arms._

_Almost instantly, Peter turned back around, his china blue eyes falling and locking onto his little brother's dark brown ones which had finally turned away from Papa's shoulder, glazed with fever. A flushed face gazed at him, and a small hand strained in the direction of the older boy._

_Swallowing a third time, and feeling his eyes swim with unshed tears, Peter answered the unspoken request and crossed the last few feet between them, gently enclosing the seven-year-old's straining hand with his own._

_The doctor appeared to come to a decision upon seeing this interaction between the two brothers, and his gray eyes hardened with resolve. He turned back to their father. "There is a way. But you must realize, Mr. Pevensie, it has only very recently been discovered. There is talk circulating around Oxford about possibly researching into it more deeply in a few years, but nothing has been confirmed, yet. I believe you may have heard of penicillin?"_

_Papa, who was an academic in his own right, nodded._

"_Then that is what I'll prescribe, as well as a full line of antibiotics," the doctor went on. "He must take those antibiotics, because if he does not, at this point it **will** turn into rheumatic fever. I have the specifics, if you and Mrs. Pevensie would join me just over there." He indicated another set of chairs (this with a table between them) across the waiting room with a tilt of his head._

_Their mother quickly nodded, once again handing Lucy (whom had crawled back into her lap once her tears were through) over to Susan and standing._

_Their father glanced down at his two boys with a half-smile. "Will you take your brother for a few minutes, Peter? It shouldn't be too long."_

_Peter didn't hesitate, but immediately nodded, opening his arms to receive his little brother. But he did not say anything. He couldn't. He was too scared._

_Daddy allowed Edmund to cautiously slip out of his arms and into Peter's, very gently settling the younger boy's own around his brother's neck. Eddy, too sick to really care about all this handling, buried his face in the ten-year-old's shoulder as the older boy quietly sat down in the seat his mother had only moments ago occupied. Susan, likewise holding Lucy, settled beside him in the next chair._

_As Peter very carefully arranged Edmund in his lap, the doctor led their parents over to the far side of the waiting room. "A fine set of children you have there," the doctor told their parents softly as the three adults made their way to the seats._

_But Peter heard nothing else, for his entire awareness had narrowed down to the shaking seven-year-old he held in his lap._

_It was very strange, this awareness of his. For he suddenly understood how his parents must feel. Right now, he did not (and would not) want to let go of his brother for anything, terrified that if he did, then Edmund would somehow disappear._

_And still, he did not let his tears fall._

_Eddy felt very tiny in his arms. Very tiny and very frail, and terribly, terribly helpless._

_And it was then, as his arms convulsively tightened around his little brother's trembling form, that Peter found himself shucking the role of child, and taking on the role of protector. Finally accepting every bit of what being a big brother meant._

(End Flashback)

The Professor sat back against the chair's back (having abandoned his perch on its arm some time ago) as Peter finished his tale and dashed an errant tear away. Marveling, he gazed at the young man across from him in not so little awe.

He had never had any siblings, and could not profess to entirely understand what being an older sibling entailed. He had had younger cousins, of course, that he used to see quite frequently (and sometimes still did), but it wasn't quite the same as having siblings.

Clearly, the oldest Pevensie loved his younger brother to a painful degree, and was sure he loved his sisters just as much. But the Professor wondered that he did not seem entirely aware of that himself.

He studied the young man thoughtfully for a few moments, as the thirteen-year-old struggled to regain some of the composure he had lost. And when Peter finally looked at him again, appearing to expect a reprimand, the Professor allowed his eyes to narrow slightly and gave the teenager a penetrating look. "Answer me only this, young man: would you die for your brother? Your sisters?"

Peter, forgetting all formality, gaped at him. What?

The Professor narrowed his eyes a bit more and leaned forward. "Would you die for them?" he repeated firmly.

The thirteen-year-old slowly closed his mouth, and the Professor was pleased to see the emotions flit rapidly through those china blue eyes as he thought furiously about the question.

/Would I/ Peter wondered. Remembering the most recent months with Edmund, and even his sisters, hurt. But really…/Could I just sit idly by? Could I stand to have that happen to them/

The very thought felt like driving a knife through his heart—or perhaps a sword—and not just because he had promised his mother he would look after them.

He swallowed, face pale, and glanced back at the Professor. "I don't know, sir," he admitted truthfully, voice soft.

The Professor smiled and, standing to his feet, stretched a bit, before (ever so briefly) resting a hand on the thirteen-year-old's head. "I ask only because you seem not to understand how deep love can run." He let his hand fall to his side and reaching out with the other, picked up _Gulliver's Travels_ from the table. The Professor turned back to Peter, eyes twinkling again, "Heigh-ho, off to Lilliput with Gulliver, I think. Rest well, young one."

And having said his piece, he walked out of the library. But not before Peter caught a muttered, "I feel it in my bones, I do. Something is going to happen. Well, bless me, if something doesn't happen…"

Whatever else he said was lost as he walked out of an earshot. Still, Peter gazed after him, long after he had disappeared, with the Professor's question echoing in his ears: _Would you die for them?_

**TBC**

**A/N:** I know, I know, I ought to be working on _Nighttime Demons_ (which I am, promise :smiles: ). But I just saw _Narnia_ again this weekend, and well, what can I say? I was bitten :grins:. I'm not quite sure when the next chapter of this will be up (I'm aiming for next week, but we'll see), so please keep your eyes peeled! It will take place after Susan's and Peter's discussion with the Professor in the movie.


	2. Origins of Uncertainty

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

**A/N:** Hey, everyone:grins: Since I just updated _Nighttime Demons_ a few days ago I figured I'd have to update this one, too. So here you go, I hope you enjoy it as much as you did the last!

**Reviewers:** 16 reviews, thank you!

**Characterization:** Well :blushes: I'm glad I seem to have done so well. I've always loved exploring characters personalities and thoughts, so that I did so well with it, makes it that much better.

**Period Details:** :gives a content sigh: Good, I got them right and the research I did proved worth it. I'll try to stay as true to the period as I can, although I'm not sure how well I can manage it. Well, just keep trying, I guess. :grins: Thanks.

**Susan and Lucy Story:** I'm not sure if I'll do one or not. My stories are mainly centered around the boys. 'Course, I try to incorporate some Susan and Lucy sibling goodness into the stories I write, as well, if it's applicable. But to do a story mainly focused on them…Hmm, I'd have to think about it.

**Many Thanks:** _Rosa Cotton, FairLilyFlower, Morwen Pallanen, paige fan, TS.Marked, liquidiamond, Frangipanigirl, Undomiel2007, Capegio, Tex110, Sera and Tails, Jenn1, Lirenel, Shauna, _and _ohcEEcho_

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

_**Memories**_

**Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.**

**.:Fever:.**

Chapter II: Origins of Uncertainty

By Sentimental Star

(Two o'Clock the Next Morning, Boys' Bedroom)

"_You're saying we should just…believe her?" he asked in no little consternation, shoulders falling._

_The Professor started puffing his pipe quickly, lowering his brow at him. "Well, of course," the older man gave him a piercing look, swiftly recalling their conversation in the library to mind:_

_**Would you die for them?**_

_The elderly Professor continued, still puffing furiously, "She's your sister, isn't she? You're a family."_

_As the truth and the weight of that statement hit home, he exchanged a guilty glance with Susan._

_The piercing look became stern. "Perhaps you should start acting like one."_

With a heavy sigh, Peter pulled his legs up to his chest where he had been sitting on the end of Edmund's bed for the past hour and a half. Resting his head against his knees, he tugged disconsolately at the cuffs of his night robe where his arms had gone around his legs.

Well, he had learned at least one thing in the past two hours. He did _not_ like disappointing the Professor.

Furthermore, he liked letting down his siblings even less.

Turning his head from his knees, Peter cast a weary glance at Edmund who slept peacefully in the bed.

Where had his little brother gone? Who was this stranger inhabiting his brother's body and wearing his brother's face?

"How can I understand you, when I don't even _know_ you anymore?" he moaned softly, voice pained.

He reached out hesitantly for Edmund's forehead, but fell just short, curling his hand into a fist instead and quietly slamming it against the wooden paneling behind the bed.

"How can we act like a family, when you won't even let us in?" he growled, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face once more against his legs. /How can I do right by you and Lu and Susan when I can't even get my head out of my arse long enough to see that I've messed up something spectacular/ He mentally groaned. /We're falling apart—all four of us. It never used to be like this. Why did it all change/

Peter raised his head and rested his chin on his knees, gazing blankly into space.

There was no father there to tell him he expected far too much from himself. No mother to fuss over him when he was sick with stress. All three of his siblings seemed farther away than ever. Even Lucy.

No one was there to guide him, to assure him that his decisions were the right ones. He felt utterly and completely lost.

He had felt like this only once before, and then, both his parents had been there. Susan hadn't been so intent on growing up. Lucy…had been Lucy. And Edmund…well, Edmund had been sick with scarlet fever still…

(Flashback, Three Years)

_The house rang with ominous silence after Daddy took Susan and Lucy over to Nanny's house for the day. They would be going over to Aunt Miranda's house tomorrow._

_Mamma and Daddy wanted them out of the house as much as possible because the doctor had said that the scarlet fever was contagious. Because neither had had it before, the grown-ups had thought it best to keep them away for as long as they could._

_Peter had originally been supposed to go, too. But he had flat out refused. He fought so hard to stay that his parents, after much argument (on Peter's part) and much discussion (on their part), decided that they would probably need an extra pair of hands anyway._

_So he was told he could stay on the condition that the moment he started to feel ill he immediately tell them._

_The ten-year-old turned from the door of the bedroom (through which he had been listening to his parents' conversation downstairs) to watch Edmund as he slept. _

_It wasn't an easy sleep. He could tell by his younger brother's restless movements under the sheets, and bit his lip as the other boy's labored breathing reached him from where the small, sweaty head lay on the pillows._

_Every muscle in his body was tense and his hands, folded tightly in his lap where he was curled in the big armchair Papa had helped him drag over to the side of the bed, shook slightly._

_He didn't know what to do._

_Mamma was in the kitchen. He could hear her rapid footsteps as she ran from one side of it to the other, trying to find something she wanted to bring upstairs and at the same time be quiet about it._

_A sudden, weak keen caused him to start so badly that he nearly toppled out of his chair._

_Instantly, his eyes flew to his little brother's prone form. Arms shorter than his own struggled feebly with an unseen force._

_Another louder, more urgent keen sliced through the air a moment later and in his haste to scramble onto the bed beside his brother, Peter sent the heavy armchair teetering behind him._

_Just as he made the bed, the chair tilted dangerously backwards on its hind legs before slamming down quite loudly on its front ones._

_Several things happened at once, then._

_There was a startled cry from Peter. A sound like a shattering glass or plate downstairs. And Edmund awoke with a half-strangled, half-alarmed yell, lurching upright and colliding with his older brother's chest._

_Peter automatically closed his arms around the seven-year-old's trembling body, vaguely noticing that he was trembling, too._

"_PETER!" came their mother's frightened shout._

"_W-We're fine, Mum!" he managed call back. Shakily, he rubbed his hands in soothing circles on his little brother's back as Eddy gave several terrified sobs, clutching his big brother's shirt._

_Even as scared as they were, Peter couldn't help hearing how awfully weak they sounded, too._

_They faded after a few minutes, but the younger boy did not let go of him. Painfully exhausted, he kept gripping his shirt and leaning against his chest. Every once in a while his breathing would hitch before going back to its irregular pattern._

_Eddy felt like fire._

_As the ten-year-old sat there, holding his baby brother, mind a blank and eyes wide, he gradually became aware that not only was the younger boy burning up, but he was shaking much, much harder than he ought to be._

_The seven-year-old's hands tightened. He started quaking even worse._

_Peter's mouth felt dry. He was terrified._

_Moistening his lips he whispered, "Mamma."_

_Eddy continued shivering. His heart started hammering._

"_Mamma!" he finally managed to yell. A note of panic crept into his voice. "MAMMA!"_

_He heard her running footsteps exit the kitchen and pound up the stairs. Two seconds later she rushed into the room, hair wild and eyes frightened._

_Peter felt tears starting to sting at the back of his own as he looked at her. "Mamma, he's shaking! I don't know what to do. He's shaking so **badly**, Mamma!"_

_Quickly, their mother made her way over to the bed and placed her hand on the seven-year-old's arm, then felt his forehead._

_She pulled back a moment later, eyes hard with determination._

_Turning that gaze to Peter, she advised him firmly, "Peter, stay here. Daddy should be back in an hour. Keep him warm. I'm going out to get his medicine."_

_As she whirled and strode resolutely out of the bedroom, he caught her muttered, "Even if I have to make it myself."_

_Eyes still terribly wide, Peter grabbed the pile of blankets on the end of the bed with one hand and bundled his younger brother into them. Vigorously, he started rubbing Eddy's arms and shoulders and back, as he faintly remembered his mother doing once for him._

_His little brother started sobbing softly into his chest again, clinging to the older boy for dear life. "I'm cold, Peter. I'm cold. It hurts, Peter. Hurts," the seven-year-old cried weakly, shaking still._

_The ten-year-old felt his throat constrict. "Shh, Eddy," he forced out thickly, continuing to briskly rub up and down the younger boy's arms, "shh. Mamma's gone for medicine. Shh. It'll be…it'll be…" But he could speak no further, his throat having gone far too tight._

_There was a low moan. "Hurts, Peter. Hurts."_

(End Flashback)

Shuddering, Peter hauled himself out of the memory and jerked his head upright, shutting his eyes tightly against the tears that would not fall then, and wanted to fall now.

He hadn't known what to do, then. Not at all. 'Keep him warm,' that's what their mother had said. 'Keep him warm.' But how on earth could he keep his little brother warm, when he had no way of understanding the illness in the first place?

Blurrily, he opened his eyes and blinked back the moisture that had risen from their depths, swinging his head to look at the now ten-year-old Edmund who had remained asleep all through his trip to the past.

As the last of the shudders ran its course, Peter wearily unfolded himself before curling up in the corner where bed met wall, head against the wooden paneling, and clenching his hands in his night robe.

His eyelids fluttered as he kept his gaze riveted on Edmund's sleeping face, but he barely noticed as they gradually grew heavier and heavier. Until at last, they shut completely and his breathing evened out as sleep finally took him.

oOoOoOoOoOo

(Five and a Half Hours Later)

Warm, yellow light hit his eyelids, forcing Peter out of sleep. He blinked once. Twice. Before slowly opening his eyes…and wincing as a bright sunbeam hit them head-on.

Hazily, he wondered why he felt so scrunched, and why the distinct feel of a knitted blanket was pressed against his cheek.

As he steadily became more aware of exactly where he was—Edmund's bed, not his—he suddenly started upright, glancing around wildly.

He found himself at the foot of said bed, still dressed in his night robe and slippers from last night. His eyes ached from lack of proper sleep and from fighting back tears.

"Must've fallen asleep here," he muttered, rubbing at sleep-crusted eyes.

Uneasily, he glanced up at Edmund, almost dreading what he would find…and released a quiet, relieved breath.

His younger brother was still asleep, and therefore, had no knowledge of his bed's extra occupant. Had he been awake, Peter was nearly certain he would have been less than pleased to find his older brother there.

And as much as that thought hurt, he did not intend on making it come true.

Hastily, he extracted himself from the knitted throw he had somehow managed to tangle himself in and quitted his spot at the bed's end. Haphazardly, he refolded that blanket and slung it over the foot of the bed.

Only when he finished folding the throw, and stepped back, did he allow himself to relax.

Glancing out the window, he was unable to prevent the small smile tugging at his lips.

The early-autumn sun shone brightly outside and it looked as though it might be a relatively warm day. Still smiling slightly, Peter made his way over to his own bed, pulling out his suitcase from under it and setting it on the mattress. Unlatching the clasps, he began to select what he wanted to wear that day.

As he set those clothes out and his smile grew, he wondered what the others would say to a game of cricket.

**TBC**


	3. Origins of Guilt

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

**A/N:** Okay, shameless plug here: I have just recently set up a Live Journal community called _Brothers Born_. It is a community dedicated to Peter and Ed's relationship as brothers (no incest, I'm afraid :sheepish smile: ). I'm not sure how many of you have LJ accounts, but if you do, please submit a request to join, and spread the word. If you'd like to see it, go to my profile page here and click on the "homepage" link, it should lead you right to it.

All right, now that I've got that out of the way…:grins slightly: Not sure how strictly accurate I am with my medical information, but as I said before, I'm no doctor. I do research what I write, but I have been unable to find a clear reference that I trust (and doesn't have all the medical terminology that's more like…er…Chinese to me; doctors and nurses, you're amazing for being able to wade through all that terminology and information). So I went on a limb here, and if my possible alteration of medical information offends anyone, I'm sorry. Anyway, third chapter's up, and I hope everyone enjoys it as much as they did the last two!

**Reviewers:** All _31_ of you, thank you!

**Characterization:** Wow, I'm glad I did so well on this. Believe me, it's not easy :grins:. I think I have the boys' characters down all right in this next chapter, but I'm not sure about anyone else—so please let me know!

**Flashbacks:** I'm pleased so many of you like these. Yes, all chapters will have flashbacks as far as I know. It just works, you know? And I have so much fun writing them :grins and winks: Enjoy!

**Many Thanks:** _Hermione Eveningfall, Jenn1, Frangipanigirl, TimeMage0955, Tex110, Eilwyn, Lina, SugarHighNutcase, amidnightkiss, Capegio, A Amelia Black, MaskedSoldier, Claudette, _and _Shauna_.

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

**Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.**

**.:Fever:.**

Chapter III: Origins of Guilt

By Sentimental Star

(Narnia, Late Evening, Tree Village)

"_Thank you for your help," a half-annoyed, half-grateful groan followed as the Fox quickly rolled to his feet and stood upright. "But I'm afraid that's all the cure I have time for."_

_Lucy's eyes widened slightly in the firelight. "You're leaving?"_

_The Fox pushed his ears back and bowed gracefully to her. "It has been a pleasure, my Queen, and an honor." He straightened up. "However, time grows short and Aslan Himself has asked me to gather more troops."_

_This caused a fair bit of excitement on the part of their small party._

_A couple gasps and Mr. Beaver pressed eagerly, "You've seen Aslan?"_

_Mrs. Beaver actually clapped her paws together, smiling. "Oh, what's He like?"_

_He lifted his head from where he had been staring broodingly into the fire, feeling just as eager to hear this as the Beavers appeared to be, and a glance at his sisters revealed the same._

_The Fox's eyes danced in the firelight as he turned to the Beavers, chuckling softly. "Like…everything we've ever dreamed of." Suddenly, he turned to Peter. "You'll be glad to have him at your side during the battle with the Witch."  
_

_He felt his stomach drop where he sat on a log, and looked down at the piece of bread he was turning over and over in his hands. Somehow, he didn't feel so hungry anymore, and the joy that had coursed through his veins at hearing "Aslan" spoken vanished as the impending situation smothered him._

_Vaguely, he head Susan counter as kindly as she could manage, "We're not planning on fighting any Witch."_

"_But surely, King Peter…" the Fox's voice broke into his broodings again and he raised his head to find the Talking Animal gazing hopefully back at him._

_He turned his head as Mr. Beaver finished, "We can't go to war without you."_

_It felt like the bars of a cage we closing in on him more and more rapidly. He glanced from Mr. Beaver, to the Fox, to Susan and Lucy, before tossing the bread back at his pack and gazing around at all of them, helpless frustration lending itself to his voice and in his countenance, "We just want our brother back."_

And now he sat up, staring blankly into the fire, with the sleeping forms of Susan, Lucy, and the Beavers sprawled about their little clearing.

It was perhaps to his detriment that his was one of the noblest hearts that had ever beat in anyone's breast (although if he was told this he heatedly denied it). It led him to try and be strong, to shoulder all responsibility, and protect his siblings, mother, and whoever else needed protecting to the best of (and sometimes beyond) his ability.

It also caused him take the blame for anything that went wrong.

Usually his parents, friends, or siblings took great pains to point out that everything was not—indeed, _could_ not be—his fault.

But no friend was here to tease him. No parents were here to refute him. And his siblings…the two girls were sleeping and Edmund…Edmund had gone to the Witch.

And Peter couldn't help but wonder if that was because of him, too.

He had gone through all the possible scenarios, and could only come up with one so starkly accusing that it cut him to the very marrow of his bones.

He had failed Edmund.

Lucy certainly had nothing to do with it, and not Susan either. He couldn't blame his younger brother because that just hurt too much. And Mr. Beaver had even said Edmund was the bait—the Witch wanted to catch all four of them, to stop the prophecy from coming true.

So what else could he think? Susan was right. This was his fault. He had brought them here and chosen the thrill of adventure over common sense.

Now if Peter had not been so intent on blaming himself, he might have recalled that Lucy was the first to find Narnia, Edmund the second, and that a mix of circumstances and perhaps fate had led them to hide in the wardrobe.

But Peter was Peter, and being Peter, he couldn't see anything beyond the fact that he had brought them into the wardrobe, allowed Lucy to choose what she wished to do, and then had followed a Talking Beaver to his dam.

It went deeper than that, too, and the very thought made him sick.

This wasn't the first time he had failed his little brother, although neither Edmund (even now), nor their parents would see it that way.

(Flashback, Three Years)

_It had happened without warning, before Peter could even attempt to figure out what was going on. _

_His parents were with him in Eddy's bedroom. It was evening, and Mamma had brought up a small, portable cooker—the old-fashioned kind that Nanny used to have. All it was, really, was a tiny porcelain platform that went over a burning candle. It had four legs and a hole in its top, allowing the candle's flame to get through. A little dish was placed in that hole, and the candle hit the bottom of it, cooking whatever was inside. Mamma still had it because, as she liked to say, "Who knows when it might be helpful?"_

_As such, the Pevensie children, whenever they were sick, were oftentimes made to stay in bed, while their mother cooked soup and broth for them to take along with their medicine._

_Mamma had just finished cooking chicken broth over the candle a few minutes ago, and now as Daddy held Edmund, and Peter watched from his chair, she softly encouraged the seven-year-old to take a sip of the broth she was holding up with a spoon, "Go on, sweetheart, eat some."_

_And Peter couldn't help the small smile tugging his lips up at the tiny, discontented frown on Eddy's face. His younger brother had never liked being sick, and he couldn't blame him. He didn't much like being sick, either._

_But the seven-year-old was far too ill, and far too tired to do anything else. Slowly, he opened his mouth, allowing their mother to spoon some broth into it. Slowly and with great difficulty he drank it, their father rubbing soothing circles on Eddy's back as Peter had done two days before. Mamma clucked her tongue gently, "There. Good boy," and continued spooning it into his mouth. _

_Peter's small smile faded, and he swallowed uncomfortably as he went on watching. Edmund was so pale, so weak. Strangely, it felt as though he had to but reach out and touch his brother, and the younger boy would shatter into a million pieces._

_He wasn't quite sure if he liked the idea of Eddy being so fragile._

"_Mamma?" he spoke up finally._

_Mamma looked up from where she was feeding Edmund, pushing away a few sweaty strands of hair with the back of her hand. "Yes, Peter?"_

_Peter hesitated, before slowly climbing onto the bed beside their mother. Eddy's eyes wearily tracked his progress, and he had to swallow again, pretending he hadn't seen. Lightly, he touched the rim of the small, shallow dish his mother was holding. "May…May I…?" but he trailed off, feeling rather uncertain._

_She smiled. "Certainly, dear. Here," and carefully handed him the dish and spoon._

_As their mother reached over to the nightstand near the head of Edmund's bed to snag a glass of water she had placed there, Peter turned, glancing up at their father a moment. Papa smiled slightly at him, giving a somewhat tired wink, before tenderly adjusting his hold on Eddy. "Come on, Ed, just a bit more," their father murmured encouragingly._

_Wearily, Edmund raised his eyes to Daddy before they flickered back to Peter. He gave the tiniest of nods._

_His older brother forced a warm, if small, smile of his own. Dipping the spoon into the broth, Peter brought it up, still steaming, and blew across it gently. Raising his head, he managed to make the smile widen a little and, holding the dish and spoon out, asked quietly, "Ready, Ed?"_

_Eddy gave another tiny nod and obediently opened his mouth._

_Gingerly, Peter spooned the broth in as their mother had done. "Whoops," he whispered, still smiling slightly as he caught a little in the dish that hadn't quite made Edmund's mouth._

_The seven-year-old looked as though he might have smiled in return, but the younger boy was so busy attempting to swallow it down that Peter couldn't quite be sure._

_Daddy rubbed Edmund's back, making 'shhing' noises as his youngest son struggled through it._

_His older son also swallowed again, against the sudden lump in his throat, and blinked back the heat that threatened to break free. In an effort to distract himself, as soon as Edmund managed to finish that spoonful, Peter carefully leaned forward and brushed a small kiss against his little brother's forehead. It didn't help much—the tears still seared behind his eyes. When he pulled away, it was a rather tremulous smile that he graced the younger boy with. "All…All right there, Eddy?" he murmured. If either of their parents noticed his voice crack slightly, they didn't mention it._

_Edmund gave a weak—so unbearably weak—smile, and an equally faint nod._

_Peter forced himself to smile again in return. "Good." And he held up the spoon once more._

_It had continued in this manner for about ten minutes. At which point, Eddy turned his head away. The entire time, he hadn't spoken, but the message was clear. He didn't want anymore._

_The ten-year-old, who had grown increasingly more upset as the minutes wore on, glanced up their father, sending a half-pleading, half-worried look at him. Papa nodded wearily, his own smile not particularly bright and eyes barely open._

"_Will you have just one more sip, Ed? Please?" Peter asked thickly, holding up the spoon one last time._

_Edmund turned back to him, frown tiny and petulant, rubbing at his chest._

_Peter noticed his actions. "Does it hurt?" he whispered, momentarily lowering the spoon and casting a glance at it._

"_Feels funny," the younger boy finally rasped, voice small._

_Peter didn't know what to say to that. Daddy had started dozing against the headboard of the bed, still holding Eddy, and Mamma had gone to the bathroom a couple of minutes ago. Finally, clearing his throat and lifting his head, the older boy picked up the spoon again and held it out, "Maybe have some of the broth?" he suggested._

_The seven-year-old didn't look happy, but nonetheless opened his mouth obediently._

_However, this time when Peter began spooning the broth in, something went terribly, horribly wrong._

_Edmund couldn't swallow the broth. He started coughing, he started shaking, he started choking. He couldn't breathe._

_Peter very nearly spilled the dish he was holding at this drastic change of events and Edmund's terrified sobbing didn't help him any._

_What happened next he couldn't really say; everything hazed together in one large, frightening blur. Mamma rushed in just as Daddy started violently out of his doze and rapidly began rubbing Edmund's back. His parents' voices shouted at each other, high-pitched with fear and worry. Someone snatched the dish from his hand. Mamma took Edmund from Daddy, rocking him in her arms as if he were two again, trying to calm him down. Daddy grabbed Peter and fairly dragged him from the room. His parents' voices blended together. Daddy let him go in the hall. The command he gave was harsh, made so by the fright his father felt, "Stay **here**, Peter!" Then Daddy rushed past him with Mamma and Edmund, down the steps and into the front foyer. The front-door slammed. The last glimpse Peter had of his little brother was of a nearly white face and dark brown eyes falling shut._

_The car was started up in the driveway. He heard it speed off. And Peter was left more alone than he could ever remember being._

(End Flashback)

Wracked with violent tremors, Peter tumbled out of the memory and very nearly off the log. His mouth was horribly dry and his throat terribly tight. Why, of all times, why did these memories have to haunt him _now_? Of all times!

He glanced up, still trembling wildly, and saw the fire burning low in its coals.

Shakily, he reached out for the nearby pile of wood and added several new pieces of faggot to it, stirring the coals until the tinder caught and flared again.

His hands still hadn't stopped trembling.

When Dad and Mum had returned much later that night with Edmund, his younger brother had been unconscious. He had never told either of his parents, nor Ed, but whenever he remembered that evening it was always with the thought that he had somehow been responsible for the alarmingly sharp turn the scarlet fever had taken.

Logically, he should have known that couldn't be the case. But since when had he ever been logical about something like that?

And it made the Professor's question to him, what seemed like such an awful long time ago, that much more poignant: _Would you die for them?_

It was safe to say, he still didn't know. And that tore him up even more. Here they were, separated in a strange country, children expected to shoulder a grown-up's burden, and Peter wasn't even sure if he could protect them—even with his life.

Edmund was gone, going through who _knows_ what torments. Susan and Lucy, the Beavers, the whole of Narnia, seemed far too trusting of him. And Peter felt very, very uneasy with that situation.

How could he defend an entire country, he wondered bitterly, when he couldn't even defend his own family?

"Son of Adam?"

The question came out of the darkness and from the direction of the Beavers, causing him to nearly give a startled yelp. It was only by sheer force of will that he kept himself from leaping off the log, too.

"My apologies," came the sheepish response as Mr. Beaver scurried into the firelight.

"It's all right," Peter whispered. /My heart's just hammering in my chest, is all/ he thought wryly, but did not speak, forcing himself to relax.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" the Talking Animal offered softly, comfortably situating himself by the fire.

Peter nodded, slowly climbing to his feet and starting to navigate towards where Susan and Lucy were curled together amongst the roots of one of the larger trees, just skirting the circle of firelight.

He halted midway when Mr. Beaver suddenly spoke again, "And don't worry, Son of Adam, Aslan'll know what to do."

The thirteen-year-old stiffened, but didn't dare turn, lest the kindly Beaver see the pain in his eyes and blame himself for it. Instead, he gave a small, wordless nod, and walked the rest of the way to his sisters.

He felt Mr. Beaver's eyes on his back the entire time.

As he lay down, curling himself around Lucy so that the youngest of them was comfortably sandwiched between he and Susan, Peter heard movement around the fire as Mrs. Beaver went to join her husband.

"Everything all right?" he could hear her ask quietly.

Then Mr. Beaver's response, "Think so, though I don't know for sure." He was silent a moment before suddenly continuing, "I have to wonder, though, and I don't mean to question Aslan's will, but…is it fair, to lay so much their shoulders? We can't help it, I know, they brought something with them that we haven't had in many long years, but still…is it fair?"

As his eyes slipped shut, Peter found himself wondering just how in the world he could live up to such a question.

**TBC**

**A/N:** And so, chapter three winds to its end. In spite of everything, I think this was perhaps one of my favorite chapters to write. I'm not sure if I got the Beavers' characterizations just right, but I did my best and I hope it shows.

Next Chapter: _Origins of Healing_


	4. Origins of Healing

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

**A/N:** Thank you for being so patient (or not so patient :winks: ). I've just returned from vacation (no Internet there, I'm afraid), and so have had some time to work on this story. So now this chapter's finally up, and I hope you enjoy it!

**Reviewers:** All _46_ of you, thank you!

**Flashbacks:** I'm glad these have worked out so well. The ones at the start of the chapter are generally to give a sense of time and provide some insights that the movie might not necessarily have looked into. The ones in the past (which many people seem to like :grins: ) are to give an idea of where Peter is coming from. I fully intend to continue this well into the Epilogue (and there _is_ an Epilogue :grins again: ), so keep reading!

**Edmund's Perspective:** Yes, I will be using Edmund's perspective here and there (as you'll see in this chapter), but the very great part of this is from Peter's perspective. Still, it _will_ be there, so look for it :grins:.

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

_**Memories**_

**.:Fever:.**

Chapter IV: Origins of Healing

By Sentimental Star

(At Aslan's Encampment, Early Morning)

_He stood near the edge of the precipice, one hand on his sword's hilt and dressed in Narnian attire, gazing out across the camp and towards a glittering object on the seacoast. The sea breezes gently ruffled his hair and brought with them the faint scent of salt._

_He inhaled the scent, trying to live in the moment and not worry about what was to come—if only for a little while._

_It came to an end as a soft, rich voice spoke up from behind him, "That is Cair Paravel of the Four Thrones."_

_He turned and watched as Aslan padded lightly over to him, coming to a halt on his right side, and gazing out towards the castle. Peter turned and followed his gaze._

_The Lion spoke again, glancing at him. "In one of which you will sit, Peter, as High King."_

_He looked down at his hands, swallowing uncomfortably._

_A slight hint of reprimand entered Aslan's voice, "You doubt the prophecy?"_

_He shook his head, not quite trusting himself to raise his head, yet. "No, it's just…" Abruptly, he turns and looks up, eyes pleading and expression pained, "Aslan, I'm not who you all think I am."_

_Aslan raised a great eyebrow before shifting His gaze back to the sea and speaking up quietly, "Peter Pevensie, formerly of Finchley."_

_His expression transformed into one of surprise. _

_Aslan glanced once more at him and the thirteen-year-old could have sworn he saw a teasing glint in the Great Lion's eyes, "Beaver also mentioned you planned on turning him into a hat."_

_In spite of himself, Peter ducked his head and smiled—a trifle bashfully._

_Aslan chuckled softly, but soon sobered. "Peter, there is a Deep Magic more powerful than any of us that rules over Narnia." He raised his head again, listening as the Lion continued to speak, "It defines right from wrong, and governs over all our destinies. Yours," Aslan turned His face to the sea, "and mine."_

_His face tightened and he started gesturing, a bit wildly, "But I couldn't even protect my own family!"_

_Aslan glanced at him again. "You've brought them safely this far."_

_This time, it was Peter who turned to face the castle, expression troubled, "Not all of them." He felt his heart aching at the thought of his younger brother, still in the Witch's clutches. Of Susan and Lucy, who had trustingly followed him here. What possible good could Aslan see in him? This was entirely—_

"_Son of Adam," Aslan spoke up sternly, in such a voice that Peter **had** to look at Him. What came next totally threw the teenager, "Would you die for him?"_

_And Peter could only stare, breath catching slightly in his chest. /What…? How did He…/_

_Aslan regarded him with quietly knowing eyes. "Think on it, Peter. I will do what I can for your brother, but I need you to consider what I ask of you…" He turned back to face the sea, His eyes this time settling on the red and gold tents below. "I, too, want my family safe."_

And as Peter slowly pulled his tunic on over his head, the charge Aslan had laid on him yesterday still echoed in his mind. Because that question Aslan had asked, so similar to the Professor's, also held a great weight—perhaps even more than it did then. For that question now seemed to apply to the Narnians, as well. If he wasn't willing to die for his siblings, how then, could he hope to be worthy of dying for an entire country?

Perhaps that is what Aslan wanted to know. But the truly odd thing was that Peter also thought more was tangled up in that question than even Aslan's bid to protect Narnia, to hold it as dear as he did his own siblings. Something that so specifically pinpointed _him_, that he couldn't even see it.

Would he die for them? For the girls and Edmund? For Narnia? Yesterday he had rushed headlong into battle with the Witch's two wolves, slaying Maugrim in the process. He had not stopped to consider that he knew barely any swordsmanship, had not stopped to analyze the logic of heading straight into danger, heedless of his own safety.

His sisters had been in trouble. He had merely reacted.

Is that what Aslan wanted then? Was it even the _same_ as being willing to die for them?

Such thoughts and questions had so far only succeeded in giving him a headache, as they did now.

Heaving a sigh, Peter flopped down (rather ungracefully) on the floor of the tent and dropped his head back onto his hammock, gazing up at its red and golden roof as he blew out a frustrated breath.

He supposed it was only fair that as the future High King that he be asked such a question, but he was barely thirteen! These questions weren't the sort normal thirteen-year-olds were generally _asked_…

But, as he was starting to realize, he and his siblings were far from normal, particularly here. /Have we ever been, really/ he mused.

None of the four of them had felt especially different from their same-age companions in school or in church, but something…something must have been. Although he hadn't the faintest clue what.

Blowing out another breath and shutting his eyes, Peter resolutely steered his thoughts back onto their previous course, determined to make some headway, else he did not think he'd _ever_ sleep…

They came across a very familiar block.

(Flashback, Three Years)

_The really awful thing was that they wouldn't let him stay. Daddy had to literally force him into his room and into bed._

_He hadn't been happy. But, obedient by nature, he had finally listened, changed, washed up, and clambered into bed. Daddy had kissed him good-night, promising wearily that Eddy, though "unconscious" (not responding, Mum had said), would be perfectly fine._

_Peter would have liked to believe him, but the memory of his little brother, pale, shaking, and with his eyes shut, prevented him from doing so._

_It was also wonderful material for nightmares to feed off of._

_He didn't remember the dream. He did not **want** to. All he remembered was a desperate need to get to his brother._

_Which explained why he was now tiptoeing down the hallway to the younger boy's room._

_He did not pause to check if his parents were inside. He knew at least one of them would be with Edmund at all times during his illness. They were always like that, when one of them got sick._

_So when he pushed the door open and slipped into Eddy's bedroom, he was not surprised to see his mother there, sitting in a chair pulled up to the seven-year-old's bedside._

_Her head slowly rose as she smiled tiredly at him where he had frozen in the doorway, in spite of his knowing the likelihood of finding one of his parents there. She waved him in. "Come in, darling. I told your father you'd be in here soon enough, although I can't say we didn't hope it would be later."_

_Peter smiled briefly and padded over to the bed, climbing on to it. The smile faltered as he took in his little brother, just as pale as he had seen him several hours ago, and breathing far more shallowly than he remembered._

_He supposed he should be grateful Eddy was at least **breathing**._

_He turned a determined frown to their mother. "I'm staying," he stated fiercely. "I won't leave. Not at all."_

_Mum straightened slightly, blinking at him in surprise. "Peter--"_

"_No!" he interrupted, voice a quiet exclamation. "No. I promised him. I promised him I wouldn't leave him alone!"_

_Their mother glanced at him with a small, confused smile on her face. "When did you promise him that, dear?"_

"_The day he was born," the ten-year-old retorted immediately._

_She blinked at him again, clearly surprised. Peter felt his cheeks burning. He normally wasn't so uncooperative, but…he promised. And he would keep his promise, until the day he died._

(End Flashback)

Peter came out of it, shooting upright and blinking in the early morning light, the last vestiges of the memory playing through his mind/_Until the day he died_./

Swallowing uncomfortably, the thirteen-year-old (slightly unsteadily) gained his feet. He had been so young then, too young, really, to know the weight of that promise.

Clinching his sword-belt tightly around his waist, Peter slowly made his way towards the entrance of the tent, thoughts still with the memory.

It cast his failing with Edmund in that much of a starker light. He hadn't kept his promise, not 'til the day he died, and certainly, not right now. Right now, he could not even decide whether or not—

Peter halted abruptly, having already made it outside. The golden sunlight poured down on his shoulders, but he barely noticed. All he noticed, all he could see, was the black Centaur whom Aslan had introduced yesterday as Oreius.

The black Centaur Aslan had sent after Edmund.

Oreius paused in his walking, apparently having caught sight of his soon-to-be liege. A brief, flickering smile and a directing of Peter's eyes to a cliff-face, and then the General went on his way.

The thirteen-year-old's breath caught in his throat, as did his cry/_Edmund_/

For Edmund it was, bowed, wearied, but alive. And talking with Aslan.

Susan and Lucy emerged from the tent on his right, smiling as they caught sight of him standing there.

Peter unfroze, giving a sort of choked, half-gasp as he tried to explain to his sisters what he had seen. Susan's smile slipped, as did Lucy's, and both pinned him with a puzzled glance.

In the end, he could only look back towards Aslan and the precipice. If he remembered correctly, it was the same one he and the Lion had stood upon only yesterday. The irony of that did not escape him.

The girls followed his gaze. Susan stiffened, a small frown on her face. Lucy, however, was the exact opposite.

"Edmund!" came the happy cry as their younger sister darted forward.

Peter finally thought to move, gently catching her by the arm and stilling her movement.

Lucy subsided, but frowned at him, confused.

Peter could only look back up at the cliff-face. Aslan captured his gaze, and he was nearly certain the Lion had raised a shaggy eyebrow, as if to say, _See? Everything's fine._

And Peter nearly laughed out loud, releasing a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. Gratitude welled up within him, and he allowed it to overflow into his eyes.

Aslan dipped His great head in acknowledgement, and Peter would have seen Him actually smile, had his eyes not returned to Edmund who was slowly making his way towards his siblings, exhaustion in his every step.

Peter's jaw clenched, and tears pricked his eyes as the ten-year-old drew steadily nearer. Bruises. A split lip. A cut, crusted with dried blood. Face pale, dirtied, and somehow much thinner than when he had seen him last.

And vulnerable. So terribly vulnerable.

Was it any wonder that he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to rush at his younger brother, sweep him into his arms, and never let him go? Or perhaps merely to beg forgiveness.

/Oh, this is all _my_ fault/ he thought brokenly, eyes feeling unnaturally bright and fingernails biting deeply into his palms as he forcibly held himself back.

Never mind that neither Aslan, nor any of his siblings, even remotely entertained such a notion.

For his sisters, they thought there was quite enough blame to go around. For Edmund, he could barely stand to look at his older brother (or the girls for that matter), knowing he had betrayed them for _candy_.

Aslan merely knew that this little torn family needed mending. And He could at least do that much.

"What's done is done," Aslan spoke up, voice stern, drawing the attention of all three siblings as the Lion and Edmund came to them. "There is no need to talk with Edmund about what is past."

With a light nudge to the youngest boy's back, He glided off, leaving the four children alone.

Edmund released a soft sigh, hesitantly raising his head. "Hello," he whispered.

Peter bit down viciously on his lower lip and hugged his arms to his chest, willing himself not to cry. "Hello," he slurred thickly in return.

At the younger of their brothers' slightly startled look, Lucy gave a warm laugh and pattered forward, throwing her own arms around Edmund's waist and giving him firm hug.

Edmund's face relaxed dramatically and his shoulders un-tensed as he gratefully returned the hug, burying his face in Lucy's hair as he released a deeply relieved sigh. With a giggle as it stirred her hair, the eight-year-old darted back, grinning widely and making room for Susan.

Susan stepped forward and pulled him into a warm hug of her own, causing Edmund to stand up on his tiptoes slightly in order to return it. She gave a light laugh as she, too, pulled away, smiling brightly, "Are you all right?"

The younger boy managed a smile in response. "I'm a little tired."

Lucy giggled again. "I'd be tired, too, after staying up all night."

And because it was so incredibly comfortable to be among his family again, Edmund's smile turned into a grin. The old, familiar grin that Peter remembered many-a-time lighting up his little brother's face.

For this _was_ his little brother, no longer a stranger and no longer so strange.

He swallowed, bowing his head as more tears tried to rush into his eyes, convulsively tightening his grip on his own arms.

A tentative hand touched his shoulder. "Peter?" Edmund's voice murmured.

Peter looked up through somewhat blurred vision, starting and nearly jumping back at his younger brother's close proximity. He only just managed not to.

Edmund's guilt-darkened, brown gaze pinned him. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Therefore, because he had never been able to resist that gaze, and because he had not the least idea in the world about what to say, it was only natural that he completely startle his little brother by suddenly grabbing his wrist and crushing him into a tight embrace.

Edmund clenched his eyes shut, tears finally leaking out from underneath their lids and bringing his arms around to tightly circle Peter's neck as the older boy's entire body was sent a-tremble.

**TBC**

**A/N:** :impish grin: Yes, this is not quite the same scene as its movie counterpart. Since I tortured poor Peter (and am still planning on torturing him further), I figured I'd give him a bit of a break from all these memories. Note the "bit" :mischievous grin:. At any rate, I'm hoping this eases a few of my readers :winks:.

Next Chapter: _Origins of Sacrifice_, and takes place several hours after this one (breakfast and White Witch's confrontation; before the battle). Not entirely sure when it will be up, so please keep an eye out.


	5. Origins of Sacrifice

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis. Reminder: some of the dialogue belongs to Disney and Walden Media.

**A/N:** Hey, everyone :grins:. I decided to leave off writing _Nighttime Demons_ for a while (don't worry it's not indefinitely, or even terribly long). It's just…I've mapped out _Fever_ by now, and I think it's probably best that I finish it up first before writing anything further on _Nighttime Demons_. Aside from the possibility of losing some of my readers to asphyxiation :worriedly eyes said readers: I have a bit of a treat coming up in a little while. Or at least, I hope it'll be a treat…:grins: and wanted time to work on it. Just to warn you guys. And now…on to the fic!

**Reviewers:** All _62_ of you, thank you!

**Many Thanks:** _Sara Wolfe, amidnightkiss, Frangipanigirl, Kelsey Estel, TimeMage0955, Capegio, Jenn1, Boleyn, ohcEEcho, straitjackit, Stormythomas, Sera and Tails, lembas7, A Amelia Black, Shauna, _and_ Tex110_

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

_**Memories**_

**Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.**

**.:Fever:.**

Chapter V: Origins of Sacrifice

By Sentimental Star

(Several Hours Later, Aslan's Encampment)

He stared in amused disbelief as his little brother, now dressed in Narnian clothes similar to his own, practically inhaled his breakfast. While Edmund had always had something of a hearty appetite, he couldn't quite recall ever seeing him _this_ hungry.

Peter's face darkened and fell as he recalled the likely reason why.

Quickly, before any of his siblings caught sight of his expression, he picked up his cup from the table and went to lean against a nearby rock outcropping.

His siblings noticed his movement, but when they saw he did not intend to go far, turned back to their own meals. Edmund's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than the girls' did and Peter tensed slightly as he realized that among other changes, his younger brother had somehow become a bit empathetic. Vaguely he wondered if he'd ever be able to hide something from the younger boy again.

Edmund frowned slightly, sensing something a little off about the older boy, but realized he'd probably never pry it out of the thirteen-year-old. Shrugging helplessly, he turned back to his breakfast, but silently promised himself—and Peter—that he would keep an eye on his brother. If the older boy wanted to speak his mind, he would in time, and for now, the younger one decided to let him be.

When Edmund resumed attacking his food, Peter heaved a soft sigh and shut his eyes, rather relieved. The last thing he needed right now was for Edmund to become angry with him.

So, so, so much had happened over the past—how long had it been now? Three days? Four? Roughly that amount. He was tired of it. Tired of worrying after his siblings, tired of wondering how they were to get home—if they were to get home at all.

And, he realized with some alarm, he did not necessarily _want_ to go home. This land, these people, they had called to something deep within him, and it was a call unlike anything else he had ever experienced. He wanted to answer it.

But his heart wouldn't let him put his younger siblings in anymore danger than they had been already. If Edmund, Lucy, and Susan stayed then they would likely be drawn into this war that Mr. Beaver, Aslan, Oreius, and many others were talking about. He couldn't allow it. He'd almost rather _die_ than allow it.

As soon as he finished that thought, Peter abruptly straightened, shocked realization etching his face. /Did…did I just think that/ he wondered in astonishment.

_Would you die for them?_

_Would you die for him, Son of Adam?_

Swallowing, he glanced over at his three siblings where they were still eating breakfast. Edmund, apparently, was still inhaling his food.

Lucy was grinning at him, watching him as he ate. "Narnia's not going to run out of toast, Ed," she giggled.

Peter walked over to them, still in something of a half-daze. "Make sure you pack some up for the journey back," he spoke, his voice sounding not his own, as he sat on his cushion again.

Edmund gave him a slightly startled look, trying to swallow the last of his egg and toast, as Lucy frowned slightly at him.

Susan glanced up at him in surprise. "We're leaving?"

He set his cup down on the table. "You are."

She gave him a puzzled look for that.

Peter leaned forward, glancing around at all his siblings. "I promised Mum I'd keep you three safe. But that doesn't mean I can't stay behind and help."

Lucy looked slightly downtrodden. "But they need us…" He started as she abruptly put more force behind her words. "All _four_ of us!"

He gave her a frown of his own. "Lucy, it's too dangerous! You almost drowned, Edmund was almost killed!"

"Which is why we have to stay," came the quiet interjection from Edmund at his left.

Startled, his three siblings glanced at him, Peter pulling back slightly as he tried to decipher where this was going.

Edmund fiddled with the tablecloth before taking a deep breath and raising his head, setting his jaw. "I've seen what the White Witch can do…and I've helped her do it." He shot a fiery look at each of his siblings. "And we can't leave these people behind to suffer for it!"

There was a beat of silence. Then Lucy smiled and took his hand, giving it a warm squeeze, while Peter sat back and, smiling, shook his head in fond amazement. He didn't think he'd ever been more proud of Edmund than he was at this moment.

Susan still hadn't said anything. Now, she stood her feet with a sigh, "Well, I guess that's it, then."

She crossed behind Peter over to her gifts, causing both he and the two younger ones to look up her. "Where are you going?" he asked.

Abruptly, Susan turned with a grin, picking up the bow, quiver, and horn. "To get in some practice."

Lucy hopped to her feet after the older girl said that, dropping a quick kiss on Edmund's cheek before joining their sister. Waving to their brothers, the two girls headed off in the direction of the practice fields.

Edmund quickly swallowed some of his juice, and took another swift bite of toast, before starting to climb to his feet.

Peter gently grabbed his wrist, holding him down. "Sit a minute, Ed. Eat a bit more. You look famished."

The younger boy blinked at him in surprise, but obediently sat and took another bite, leaving Peter to his thoughts.

Quietly, he examined the wrist he was holding and caught in his breath as he spotted a red mark that looked horribly like a rope burn. It had been tended to, treated, but it was still there.

Equally disturbing was the thinness of the wrist. "Ed…" he choked softly.

Edmund stopped eating and glanced inquiringly at him.

In response, Peter wordlessly held up the wrist.

Consternation flitted across the younger boy's face and he glanced down at his plate, no longer feeling hungry. "Oh," mumbled. "Witch."

Peter's breathing hitched and he slowly began to rub his thumb in soothing circles across the wrist, sight blurring and going unfocused, locked on the limb he held.

The last time he'd seen Edmund's wrist so thin was three years ago, two or three days after his bold declaration to their mother.

(Flashback, Three Years)

_The doctor had left an hour ago, after hooking up Eddy to what Dad called an I.V. "He needs nutrients in his system," the man had explained, holding up Edmund's wrist in example. His hand nearly dwarfed it. "Otherwise, things will become much worse."_

_Peter hadn't seen how. Wasn't being unconscious bad enough?_

_The doctor had noticed him listening in, once again ensconced in the bed with his brother, and had seen his frown. Instead of clarifying his statement, however, the gray-eyed doctor had critically examined Peter's face, before patting his shoulder and turning back to his parents. Cocking his head in the older boy's direction, he had remarked around a small smile, "And best make sure this one gets some sleep. Don't want him to come down with anything, either."_

_Peter had scowled fiercely, then, protectively snatching back his little brother's hand with as much gentleness as he could muster. He wasn't going anywhere. Not even to sleep._

_The man had chuckled softly at his actions, snapping his valise shut and picking it up, made his way out of the room._

_The doctor's statement, however, had worried his parents enough that as Dad walked the other grown-up towards the door, he had asked, "Is there a chance Peter will come down with scarlet fever, too?"_

_The man had paused momentarily in the door to Edmund's room, glancing back at Peter who watched him unblinkingly. "Has he had scarlet fever before?" the doctor asked._

_Dad nodded slightly. "When he was about a year old, or so."_

_That garnered a somewhat startled look from the doctor as he returned his gaze to Peter. "Well," he finally managed, "then you shouldn't have a problem. Children who have already had scarlet fever once do not usually get it again. If anything, it will be an ordinary cold or fever that he receives if he does not sleep some."_

_Clearly, both his father and mother were relieved. "Thank you, Doctor," Dad replied gratefully._

_The doctor tipped his hat. "I shall return tomorrow to check up on him. Good evening to you, Mr. Pevensie, Mrs. Pevensie," and then he was gone._

_This, unfortunately, was not necessarily good for Peter. "Peter…" their father began, slowly turning to face his oldest son._

"_No," Peter retorted stubbornly. "I promised." _

_Although he felt hot and achy, although he felt dizzy, and his eyes felt overly bright, he absolutely would not leave._

_His father frowned at the glazed look in his eyes, and coming over to him, felt his forehead. The frown deepened slightly, before he turned to Mum. "Helen," he prompted softly._

_Mum stood and came around the bed, also pressing her hand to his forehead. When she pulled back, it was with an amused—albeit tired—grin. "Well, sweetheart, it seems you've managed to come down with a fever already. We'll have to make sure we tell the doctor tomorrow."_

_Peter actually pouted. "Mum! I'm perfectly fine!"_

_Which really was not the case—he really felt quite ill—but his determination to stay with his brother no matter what overrode that._

_She sighed wearily and rubbed her forehead, fixing him with a stern look, "Peter. A good night's rest and a day in bed would do you good. You haven't slept at all since we brought Eddy home. He'll still be here when you come back."_

"_Listen to your mother, sport," Dad spoke up softly. "We've let you stay up this long (though not for lack of trying), and right now, what you need is a couple days to recuperate."_

"_You do, too," he replied—rather sulkily. His fever and exhaustion were making him difficult, and only one thought pervaded his mind at that point—he couldn't leave Edmund._

_But his father was also exhausted. And just as stubborn. Well, nearly so. "All right, then, Peter," Dad spoke in a hard voice that he rarely ever used. "If you're going to make this difficult…"_

_In one swift motion he had crossed the floor and plucked Peter off the bed. Before the ten-year-old even realized it, he was undressed, put in his summer pajamas, and deposited in his own bed across the hall, tucked in snugly and with his father settled comfortably in an armchair at his bedside._

_Peter scowled. "Why can't I stay with Eddy?"_

"_Because you're sick," his father answered steadily._

"_But I promised--!"_

_His father cut him off with a slicing motion of his hands. "Peter. Enough. You're staying in bed and that's final. I know you promised Eddy you'd stay, but do you really think he'd want his older brother sick because he wouldn't take care of himself? You can help Mum and I tomorrow night. But for tonight and tomorrow during the day, you're confined to your bed. Understand?"_

_Peter frowned and gave an unhappy sigh, but at long last settled down under the covers. "Yes, Dad," he conceded grudgingly._

"_Good," and his father placed a gentle kiss on his forehead before leaning back comfortably in his chair. "Sleep well, Peter."_

_But Peter did **not** sleep well. He woke several times during the night with feverish, half-imaginings that Eddy had disappeared or died or he was somehow too late or…_

_Several times during the night, he tried to creep out of his bed and to Edmund's room. Once he'd even made it as far as the door. But always, his father was there to pick him up and put him in bed again._

_However, as the next day's dawn finally broke, his father at last gave into a deep, exhausted sleep. Peter woke again, half-clinging with fright to the last vestiges of his final dream. He gave a gasp, not fully aware of his surroundings, and scrambled out of his bed as fast as he could._

_Vaguely, as he made it out the door, he realized someone should have been there to stop him, or pick him up. But no one was there._

_He made it across the hall to his little brother's room in record time and, heaving open the wooden door, tumbled into the room—only to find his mother asleep in her chair beside Edmund's bed._

_Eddy…was still on the bed. Still pale. Still small. Still breathing shallowly. But he was, at least, breathing…_

_And to Peter, that was all that mattered at the moment._

_Shutting his eyes in gratitude, he started breathing easier himself, and once he had his pounding heartbeat back under control, he crept across the floor and slipped under the covers beside Edmund._

_Putting his arms around his unresponsive little brother's tiny, shivering shoulders, he pressed a warm kiss to the younger boy's forehead, before lightly resting his own against it. His voice cracked as he whispered, "You're scaring me, Eddy."_

_His only response was the seven-year-old's head falling limply against his neck. Peter's voice cracked even more, several tears escaping to trickle down his cheeks, "You're scaring me."_

(End Flashback)

"Peter! _PETER_!"

Someone was shaking him—rather frantically at that—and it jolted him out of his reverie. Not that he minded.

Shuddering slightly, he took in a big gulp of air and gazed—rather dazedly—at a terrified looking, older Edmund. "Yes?"

"Peter, you _idiot_! What'd you do that for?" the ten-year-old boy demanded, eyes wide.

Dimly, he realized he was still holding onto Edmund's wrist, although his arm was now somehow crossed over his chest and his younger brother was no longer sitting, but standing in front of him.

The other boy, seeing he was more or less back in the present, released a heavy sigh and at last let off clutching his shoulders, sinking back into the cushion he'd abandoned when Peter had gone into his—rather alarming—stupor. "You scared me," Edmund muttered, brushing back his dark hair somewhat self-consciously and keeping his eyes on his plate.

The older boy swallowed, righting his jumbled thoughts and finally releasing his younger brother's wrist. "I think I scared me, too," he finally whispered.

Edmund hazarded a glance at him. "Want to talk about it?"

Peter had enough presence of mind to blink at the ten-year-old in surprise—although he supposed he ought to get used to it. He gulped again. "N-Not particularly," he managed, shoving his own hand through his hair. "It-it was about your fever. You know, three years ago? And…and I'd much rather not think about it right now, thanks."

Edmund looked away again, but not before Peter caught sight of something in his eyes.

Frowning slightly, the thirteen-year-old reached out and gently tugged up his little brother's chin, forcing the younger boy to look at him. "Ed? You know that wasn't your fault, right?"

From the guilt flickering in the ten-year-old's eyes just before he averted them, Peter realized that he didn't. Or, at least, wouldn't see it that way.

His frown deepened. "Eddy, look at me."

Reluctantly, the younger boy did as he was bid. His dark eyes churned with turmoil, and at least a half-dozen emotions flitted through them.

"It. Was. Not. Your. Fault. All right?" he stated, slowly and deliberately.

Conflicting emotions still roiled through his little brother's eyes. "Yes, it was," the ten-year-old whispered.

And Peter realized he was talking about more than just the fever.

However, before he could so much as refute it, a sudden clopping of hooves against the ground alerted the two brothers to another's presence.

Peter glanced up…and was in enough time to see Edmund give a startled yelp, completely forgetting the train of their conversation for the moment, and dive behind him.

"Peter, what is that?" he hissed softly, staying quite firmly behind the thirteen-year-old with his hands clenched in the back of the older boy's tunic.

His brother glanced over his shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow in amusement, before turning back to face the intruder…and nearly laughing out loud.

A rather bemused Oreius stood there, watching the two princes with his own eyebrow raised. "Is this a bad time?"

Peter choked slightly on his laughter. "No, Oreius, it's fine." He turned back to his younger brother, snickering quietly, "Ed, he's a Centaur. You remember, from Greek mythology? And General of the Army."

"Oh," Edmund gulped, slipping out from behind the thirteen-year-old to stand at his side, but never going any further than that. "Hi."

And Peter had to laugh. /That's not exactly what you say to the General of an Army, I'd think./

Oreius merely raised his other eyebrow, although a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. "Hello. I trust you are well, Your Majesty? Better than last night?"

"Y-Yes, thank you," Edmund stammered, clearly still slightly overwhelmed.

Aslan bless Oreius, he didn't look the least bit perturbed. "Well, then, if you'll come with me, Your Majesties…I believe it is time for you to learn how to use your swords."

Peter grinned and followed after the Centaur as he set off, gently dragging Edmund along with him. "Swords?" the younger boy near-squeaked.

His older brother pulled him in for a one-armed hug, laughing softly. "Yes, Ed. Swords. You know, those sharp, metal contraptions that look a lot like a stick with a handle?"

Edmund managed to pull himself together enough to glare at Peter.

The older boy merely laughed again.

oOoOoOoOoOo

(An Hour Later, the Practice Fields)

"Come on, Ed, sword point up! Like Oreius showed us," Peter called as he and his younger brother cantered up to the Practice Fields on horseback where Susan and Lucy were using the archery range.

The two girls glanced up at them as they rushed by, swords clanging, and watched with smiles on their faces as the two boys sparred.

"_En garde_!" Edmund cried in return, bringing his sword down accurately on Peter's…if without the finesse that came with years of long experience.

Peter grinned, and slashed back, nearly knocking the sword out of his younger brother's hand as they continued to canter, out into the actual fields themselves.

"Hey!" Edmund laughed softly, tightening his hold on the hilt of the silver sword. They continued circling each other, still on horseback, and would have resumed sparring, had Mr. Beaver not chosen that moment to come running up to them.

"Peter! Edmund!" the Beaver exclaimed.

Edmund's horse reared. Hanging on for dear life, the younger boy called, "Whoa, horsie!"

The chestnut steed quite calmly settled his front hooves back on the ground, give a somewhat indignant snort. "My name…is _Philip_."

Edmund's eyes widened. "Oh, s-sorry."

Peter snickered quietly to himself. It was easy to forget that most animals in Narnia actually _talked_.

The ten-year-old shot him a slightly sheepish glare, to which he smirked warmly back.

The light atmosphere, however, changed drastically in the next minute.

"The Witch has demanded a meeting with Aslan! She…She's on her way there now!" Mr. Beaver managed.

Pure fear washed over Edmund's suddenly very white face and Philip's mane slid from his fingers as he gave a half-choked off gasp. Unable to speak, he shot a frantic look at Peter.

Not feeling quite so cheerful anymore, the older boy quickly slipped off his unicorn's back and gave a hard swallow, landing next to Philip on the ground and reaching up for his brother, "Come on. Let's get the girls, and then get to camp."

Edmund, of course, was perfectly capable of getting off his mount by himself, but to Peter it looked as though he might faint dead away.

Indeed, when the ten-year-old gripped his upper arms and allowed himself to be helped off, the older boy had to hide his wince. His younger brother's hold was as tight as a steel trap.

And Peter couldn't help but notice Edmund clung to him a moment longer than was necessary for dismounting.

Before he could remark on it, however, white-faced and trembling, Edmund pulled away. For all the fear apparent in his eyes, there was an equal amount of determination. "I…I have to see what she wants, Peter," he managed, voice wavering slightly. The ten-year-old swallowed. "Come on, let's find the girls."

Peter could only follow after him, the first tendrils of his own fear sneaking their way back into his conscious.

oOoOoOoOoOo

(Five Minutes Later, Aslan's Encampment)

The four children burst into the camp, running with all their might to reach Aslan's tent where it stood in its clearing, sunshine pouring down on it.

It appeared they weren't the only ones to have heard of the supposed "visitor." The entire camp looked like it was out in force—from Centaurs to Satyrs to Fauns to Dwarves to Talking Animals to Dryads. Whispered conversations were flying from group to group, and there, among it all, stood Aslan Himself. Standing quite still and quite alert, his great head upright and gazing unblinkingly at the only entrance to the camp.

"Jadis!" the cry went up from somewhere within, causing Peter to pull up short with a half-smothered cry of his own as he caught his first glimpse of the White Witch. "Queen of Narnia!" the call continued to resound over the conversations buzzing around him. "Empress of the Lone Islands!"

Shudders shot up and down Peter's spine. Vaguely he was aware of his brother and sisters screeching to a halt beside him, but he had not the ability to look at them at the moment, not even Edmund. All his attention was pinned on the figure being born forward on a liter resting on the shoulders of four simply gigantic Cyclopes.

Her beauty was icy, her face a study in cruelty. Peter wanted to look away, yet found he could not.

The Cyclopes lowered the carrier. Silence fell. The crier—a dwarf who looked both harder and more bitter than those dwarves that were in Aslan's camp—stepped aside and the Witch stood, haughty and proud and cold.

"You have a traitor in your midst, Aslan," she hissed softly, her narrowed eyes flicking over to land on Edmund.

Peter heard the younger boy take in a trembling breath beside him, and finally managed to break his gaze away from the Witch, looking to his baby brother.

Edmund's face was just as pale as it had been that summer three years ago, just as white as the sheets he had lain against. Just as thin, just as pinched.

The thirteen-year-old instinctively moved forward, as if in an attempt to screen the seve—ten-year-old from her sight. Behind him, he felt Susan and Lucy step up to either side of the other boy and stand there. He could only imagine the half-scared, half-defiant looks they wore.

The Witch's eyes narrowed even more and hot anger, startlingly contrasting with her unnaturally pallid countenance, shot through the dead-green pupils, as around Peter, murmurs and gasps arose at her words.

Aslan spoke, glancing at the four hopefully-to-be-sovereigns, before turning back to her, "His offense was not against you."

The Witch set her lips in a thin line. "Have you forgotten the laws upon which Narnia was built?"

Aslan snarled, jerking every soul's attention to Him at the fury in His voice, including the False Queen's, "Do not cite the Deep Magic to _me_, Witch! I was there when it was written."

She squared her shoulders and raised her head, but did not quite meet the Great Lion's eyes. "Then you'll remember well…that every traitor belongs to me. His blood is my property."

Even as pure horror shot through Peter at those words, he whipped out his sword and placed himself bodily between his little brother and his little brother's would-be captor. "Try and take him then!" he near-growled, throwing himself into a ready stance. Around the clearing, other swords could be heard being unsheathed.

The Witch merely looked at him, her eyes ice.

And though his fingers were shaking as he stood there, his own china blue orbs trying to widen with fear and narrow with fury all at the same time, he felt a fierce, blazing joy inside, too. Because he knew, he finally understood…

_Would you die for him, Son of Adam?_

Yes. He would.

"Do you _really_ think mere force will deny me my right," the White Witch sneered. Then gave a smirk. "Little King."

The shakiness of Peter's grip on his sword hilt worsened, but still, he did not move.

He was surprised, however, by a slim hand gently pressing the hand holding the sword down.

Apparently, by the fleeting flicker of shock, then utter triumph that shot through the Witch's dead-green eyes, she was, too.

Stunned, Peter turned to face his assailant. "Ed?"

Edmund did not look at him, face stark white and eyes locked on the Witch. The younger boy's hold on his older brother's hand did not slacken. "What do you want?" the ten-year-old demanded of the False Queen, voice trembling slightly but nonetheless clear.

The White Witch gave him a nasty smirk before turning to address the masses in general, "Aslan knows that unless I have blood as the law demands, all of Narnia shall be overturned…and perish in fire, and water. You, boy," she abruptly spun back to face the four siblings, pointing at Edmund, "will die on the Stone Table. As is tradition." Suddenly, she spun to face Aslan, voice rising slightly, "You dare not refuse me!"

The Great Lion quickly bounded away from his tent and swiftly inserted himself between the four children and the enchantress, golden eyes locked on the Witch. "Enough," stated softly and with authority. "I shall talk with you alone."

As the Lion and the Witch went into Aslan's tent, the two brothers suddenly folded into each other, dropping to the ground.

Edmund clung to Peter's arm, gasping and shaking, as an equally unsteady Peter held his little brother's head tightly against his shoulder, eyes still very wide as the past five minutes raced through his mind.

/Oh, God…/ he thought.

Lucy flew at Edmund, sobbing and clinging to his neck as Susan shakily lowered herself onto the ground beside Peter with a half-strangled sob, resting her hand on the younger boy's shoulder and rubbing it without truly being aware of her actions.

Silence rang in the clearing as everyone waited with sick dread for the final verdict.

After an eternity and a half, the Witch emerged from Aslan's tent, causing Peter to shoot to his feet and release Edmund to stand beside him. Behind them, Lucy and Susan scrambled to their feet, quickly scrubbing away their tears.

The Witch looked at the four siblings impassively for a moment, before turning, and walking away. But not before Peter caught a look of terrible joy sparking in her eyes.

Four heads (as well as many others) whipped around to look at Aslan.

The Great Lion raised His head and announced clearly, "She has renounced her claim on the Son of Adam's blood."

A collective breath was released, and the gathered erupted. A huge grin lit up Peter's face as he suddenly grabbed his little brother's shoulder and gave it a rather ecstatic shake.

Silence fell again, however, when the Witch spoke, barely veiled anger in her voice where she had stepped back onto the carrier, "How do I know your promise will be kept?"

Aslan threw back His head and gave an almighty roar that shook the whole of Narnia from the Stone Table to Lantern Waste, causing the Witch to promptly sit down and her guards to take a lumbering step back.

Laughter erupted among the Narnians and cheers split the air as the siblings suddenly found their hands seized and heartily shaken by the ecstatic beings around them.

Edmund felt a small blue bundle collide with his middle and gladly returned Lucy's embrace, lifting the younger girl completely off her feet. They released each other with mutual, bright grins before turning to those around them.

Peter, once Edmund was done nearly being smothered by Susan, gently grabbed his little brother's wrist and yanked him into a tight hug. "Thank _God_," he breathed heavily.

The ten-year-old pulled back with an impish grin, eyes practically snapping with happiness. "No, thank Aslan," he replied mischievously.

And Peter laughed again, giving the dark head a friendly tousle.

**TBC**

**A/N:** Wow :stares:. Did not expect the chapter to get _this_ long. :shrugs, grinning: Ah, well. It's only fitting in a sense. This can probably be considered the keynote—the most important chapter (and perhaps the climax, too). Or, at least, _one_ of the most important chapters. I certainly hope you saw why :impish grin:.

Another one of those scenes that doesn't quite follow the movie ( :grins: I quite like writing those scenes). As for the Flashbacks, just one in this chapter, I know. But it worked better I'm afraid :sighs:. As for the scarlet fever itself—once again, I'm no doctor, so I'm not entirely certain whether my information is accurate. I hope that doesn't deter you, though!

**Next Chapter: **_Origins of Forgiveness_, taking place after the Battle of Beruna. Again, not sure when it will be out (hopefully during next weekend, but no promises), so again, please be on the look out!


	6. Origins of Forgiveness

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

**A/N:** Eh :sheepish grin: what can I say? I was inspired. Right now I really ought to be studying, but well…plot bunnies seem to be particularly ravenous today. I don't think anyone particularly objects (except maybe my Professors). So I hope you enjoy the latest installment to _Fever_.

**Reviewers:** All _76_ of you, thank you!

**Dialogue:** Yes, mainly running on memory from the movie for this, although I do reference a Fan Script now and then. But I still make mistakes, and I'm very glad when someone points them out so I can fix them, so thanks!

**Altered Scenes:** I'm glad so many of you like them (because I enjoy writing them). I just took some necessary artistic license, is all (at least in this fic) :grins:.

**Seasonal Period of Flashbacks:** Whoops :sheepish grin:. Sorry about that. Yes, they're set in the summer, and if you go back to the last chapter (and in this one) you'll see I've remedied that. Thanks for pointing it out!

**Battle:** Yes, sorry about that. No, I'm not going to write the actual battle itself, I'm afraid. My main object is to show Peter remembering, and how it coincides with his present situation, and the current state of his relationship with Edmund. And well, it's a little difficult to remember such things when you're in the thick of battle. I really hope it doesn't deduct from the work, so please let me know how you thought this worked!

**Many Thanks:**_Jenn1, Capegio, sapphiredreams, yaukira, Stormythomas, Claudette, A Amelia Black, Kelsey Estel, Sara Wolfe, amidnightkiss, lembas7, Tex110, ohcEEcho, Boleyn, _and _Hermione Eveningfall_

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

_**Memories**_

**Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.**

**.:Fever:.**

Chapter VI: Origins of Forgiveness

By Sentimental Star

(Two Days Later, Early Morning, Aslan's Encampment)

_It was like dying a soul's death. Twice._

_When the girls had come running down from the higher cliff-faces, his name a cry from their lips, and when Lucy's small arms had been flung around him, tight and shaking with relief, he had relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time since the battle began._

_Susan hadn't hugged him. He had wondered why…until, after scanning the battlefield, she had asked the one question that had sent his stomach plummeting to the earth, "Where's Edmund?"_

_The next few moments were rather blurred, if Peter had to be completely honest. He did not remember the ground they had covered from where they had been standing a few feet away from Aslan to where they were now—beside Edmund._

_He vaguely recalled Susan shouting for Edmund and shooting off an arrow in front of him, but he did not know what she had hit. He guessed it had been one of the Witch's creatures, but couldn't quite bring himself to care—his eyes had only been for his little brother's prone, shaking form on the ground._

_With a wash of memories fresh in his mind, that image had not done wonderful things for his already shaky composure._

_His heart was in his throat as they threw themselves to the ground around Edmund. Susan lifted the younger boy's head into her lap, quickly disposing of his helmet as he shuddered and gasped and clearly clung to the last fragile threads of life. _

_Peter himself gripped the younger boy's upper arms, trying to will his own lifeblood into his baby brother's veins. His wide, china blue eyes were locked on the pale face of the ten-year-old which seemed to be slipping in and out of focus, now looking like his seven-year-old self, now looking ten, and both a ghastly, nearly translucent white._

_The line between past and present blurred in that moment, and green, body-littered battlefield sat side by side with a stuffy room in summer, smelling of medicine. His brother on the grass coincided with his brother underneath the white sheets of his bed back home in Finchley._

_Both Younger Edmund and Older Edmund shook. Both Younger and Older Edmund could hardly breathe. Both Younger and Older Edmund had their eyes shut._

_But at least the white sheets weren't stained dark red, unlike the crimson stain slowly eating up the lower half of his brother's tunic._

_A tiny, trembling hand entered his vision. Lucy's. Holding an uncorked bottle._

_Peter felt his eyes widen further, and choked as he looked up at his youngest sister/Her cordial! Oh, please, please, please…/_

_His hands tightened around Edmund's arms._

_Lucy, her own eyes over-bright and hand shaking badly, unsteadily tipped one drop of the fire-flowers' juice into their brother's mouth as Susan gently tilted his head back._

_The ten-year-old swallowed._

_/Oh, please, please, please…/ Peter pleaded desperately in his mind, eyes flying back to Edmund's face._

_The younger boy stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Went completely and utterly slack._

_Lucy dropped her small face into her little hands and her shoulders started quivering._

_Susan curled over Edmund, weeping softly._

_Peter felt the ground drop out from beneath him and his mind reel. /No…/ A wordless scream in his mind, a merciless ripping of soul away from body. /No…no…/_

_His heart had nearly broken, holding his seven-year-old baby brother. His heart **was** breaking now._

_/No…no…NO/_

_Edmund drew in a shuddering breath and started coughing._

_A strangled gasp from Lucy, and a hopeful, tear-streaked face peeked out from behind her hands just as a brilliant smile completely split it._

_Edmund's eyelids fluttered once, their owner still coughing. Drawing in a steadier breath._

_A thick laugh from Susan, and her bowed shoulders straightened, a large grin completely lighting up her face as she glanced at him and Lucy._

_Edmund's eyelids fluttered twice, and their owner stopped coughing. Familiar dark brown eyes cracked open, taking in Lucy on the left, Susan directly above, and the older boy directly in front. _

_The ten-year-old smiled. Peter started crying._

_Hard._

_With a half-smothered sob, he jerked his little brother off the ground and promptly crushed him into an embrace, not caring a fig that his armor dug painfully into his chest. _

_His shoulders heaving, he clenched his fists in the back of Edmund's tunic, gripping the fabric so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Face buried against the younger boy's neck, he shed his tears—hot, silent, and fast._

_/Whoever made this possible, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you/_

_Because Edmund was alive. Wonderfully, wonderfully alive._

_With a half-choked laugh, Peter pulled back, eyes blazing with joy, "When are you ever going to learn to do as you're told?" he managed._

_Edmund bowed his head sheepishly, a small smile gracing his face, before looking back up at Peter. /Probably never./_

_The thirteen-year-old continued looking at him, lightly clapping him on the side of his face, mindful of his gauntlet, and shaking his head as several more tears wended their way down his cheeks._

_Suddenly, Edmund reached up and gently drew his face closer, pressing their foreheads together._

_Someone wriggled in underneath their arms and Peter grinned slightly as Lucy curled her small arms around their necks, resting her own forehead against their cheeks._

_Then Susan managed to slip in, echoing Lucy's position on the opposite side and causing Peter's grin to widen._

_/Thank you, thank you, thank you/_

A sharp exhale of breath, and china blue eyes snapped open.

He had woken again, for the third time tonight, tensed and relaxing only when he heard his younger brother's familiar sleep-breathing.

He knew he ought to be sleeping, too, still worn out from yesterday's battle and early waking. He, like Edmund, had taken a nap under the watchful eyes of their sisters and Mrs. Beaver after having returned to camp. But unlike Edmund, he had been unable to sleep well during the night. The younger boy, still exhausted from the wound and having gone without proper sleep for the past few days, had little difficulty falling back asleep.

It was that wound, however, which caused Peter to lie awake now, counting his little brother's every breath.

He had a feeling that particular scene had been flash-blinded on his memory, and would haunt him for many years more: Edmund shattering the Witch's wand and the Witch stabbing Edmund.

It was even worse than having to watch Edmund suffer through scarlet fever three years ago, small frame wracked with shudders and terribly, terribly frail and helpless.

He had been powerless then, too.

The images overlaid each other, flashed before his mind's eye—chastising, blaming, frightening, condemning.

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes and squeezing his eyes shut, Peter took several deep, calming breaths. Finally, flinging back his covers, the teenager swung his legs over the hammock's side and sat up. Slipping on his boots, he stood and quietly made his way over to the flaps of the tent, peering outside in hopes of determining roughly what time it was.

Dawn's very first rays had touched their encampment.

Releasing a soft breath, Peter let the flaps fall and turned back to face their hammocks. Foregoing his own completely, he lightly walked over to Edmund's and carefully sat down beside his brother.

Reaching his hand out, he started gently brushing it through the ten-year-old's hair, eyes tender as he watched the younger boy sleep.

Early morning, just after dawn, had always seemed a special time for Peter. A magical time, when somehow, everything seemed to turn out right.

For it had been early on a summer morning when Edmund had finally surfaced from his fever-induced unconsciousness three years ago.

(Flashback, Three Years)

_His parents had given up on ordering him back to his own bed. They had tried at first, when they found him in Edmund's bed the morning after they had diagnosed him as with fever (not scarlet fever, just your regular, everyday fever). But he always somehow managed to sneak back in._

_And really, they hadn't tried **that** hard, because, for one reason or another, Peter's presence in his little brother's bed had suddenly caused a complete turnaround in the younger boy's condition._

_The first day after the ten-year-old had returned to his place at Eddy's bedside (or rather, actually **in** the bed, for his parents had asked that much of him), the seven-year-old's breathing had eased._

_The second day after the ten-year-old had returned to his place, Eddy's shaking had ceased, and their parents had deemed him enough out of danger that they were able to get some much needed sleep themselves._

_Today was the third day, Peter recalled hazily, as he slowly blinked his eyes open, having (like Mum and Dad) at last surrendered to sleep. He felt tired and sweaty, but remarkably good, all things considered. /Fever must've broke/ he thought groggily, coming to._

_Funny, why did it feel like someone was playing with his hand?_

_/Lu/ he wondered, for the other person's hand, though the grasp was weak, felt far too small to belong to one of his parents._

_Blinking his eyes clear of the last traces of sleep, Peter wearily raised his head and glanced over at Edmund to check on him, as had become his morning ritual since this entire nightmare began._

_He didn't understand what he was seeing at first, having become so accustomed to finding his little brother's eyes shut tight against the fire and the agony of the fever._

_Then Eddy smiled, brown eyes utterly exhausted but shining with a weak glow not unlike the one the ten-year-old knew so well. It was small and fatigued, but it was there._

_And Peter finally understood. **Because** he finally understood, he did the only thing that could have possibly made sense at that moment:_

_He started crying. Harder than he ever had in his entire life._

_If little hands reached up and awkwardly patted his cheeks, he didn't notice, too busy clutching them to his face._

(End Flashback)

Peter scrubbed away a few errant tears that had once again trickled down those cheeks, but no little hands were there to catch them. For they were not so little anymore, and pillowed his ten-year-old sleeping brother's peaceful face.

As the morning sun's rays crept through the partially open flaps and kissed the younger boy's eyelids, Edmund stirred and, taking in a deep breath, slowly blinked open his eyes.

His gaze fell on Peter.

The older boy smiled softly at him, still stroking his hair. "Morning," he greeted quietly.

"Morning," Edmund replied, returning the smile, albeit with slight confusion.

It had been three years since he had last woken to find his older brother next to him on his bed. And this time, Peter was awake.

Frowning a little, Edmund reached his hand up and lightly touched the shadows he had only just noticed under the thirteen-year-old's eyes. "Did you sleep at all last night?" he wanted to know, voice slightly accusing.

Peter surprised him by catching up his hand and holding it against his cheek with his own. The older boy gave a small smile. "Somewhat," he admitted truthfully. He cleared his throat. "Ed, we need to talk."

The fingers of the hand Peter had captured curled a little. "Peter?" he queried. He had thought that everything which needed to be said between them (or nearly everything) had been said yesterday in that hug. Certainly, it had done wonders for easing Edmund.

But Peter, apparently, needed to say a bit more.

His older brother's smile saddened and his expression became tinged with regret and guilt. "Well, I need to apologize more like," he murmured. "And I _am_ sorry, Edmund, more than you could ever know."

That startled the younger boy. Quickly, he sat up, locking his gaze with his brother's. "What? Peter, why?"

Peter's expression became decidedly more pained. "Because I couldn't protect you." When Edmund's eyes widened fractionally in surprise and he went to protest, the older boy shook his head, "Please, hear me out, Ed. I…I've messed up something awful with you. I've always been harder on you than I should. Always ended up scolding you and being a beast. I was scared, Edmund. That fever…that fever almost took you away. And I…I couldn't stand the thought of possibly losing you again. Daddy told me…he _told_ me, Edmund, that I was to protect you and Lu and Su, because he wouldn't be there to do it. I didn't. I couldn't. I was too scared. And I failed you because I was so scared, so…so…I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Peter buried his face in his hands, starting to cry again—which hadn't been his intention at all. But he couldn't stop. He just couldn't.

He had thought those memories, all of them, long gone, hidden in the deepest recesses of his mind. Only to find out that having his younger brother torn from him, almost twice now, had called them up in the most painful way possible.

Unlike after waking from all those other memories, however, this time there were arms there to catch him as he sagged forward. Arms, though not quite as small, nonetheless smaller than his own.

This time, however, they were also long enough to reach all the way around him.

He snapped his eyes open with a gasp as those arms cradled him close. "When did you get so big?" he murmured thickly.

He heard a suspiciously wet chuckle from above him, and Edmund gently removed his hands from his face, brushing away Peter's tears with one of his own. "Sometimes a lot sooner than I would have liked," the younger boy replied softly. His shoulder lifted, then fell, as he took in a breath and slowly released it. "Peter, listen to me," he continued quietly, still smoothing away the tears with his thumb, "you're not Dad. But you don't have to be. You're my big brother. And really, in some ways, that's more than enough. You _know_ why I'm here now, why I was here even before Narnia. I'm not sure if I ever thanked you properly…" He cracked a tremulous smile down at his older brother who had for once let off being so stubborn and was now silently listening. "Back in England…I know it seemed like I had forgotten what you did for me, but I didn't, Peter. Ever. And I'm not afraid to tell you that now."

With a sputtering laugh, Peter drew himself up to Edmund's eye-level. "Thank you…" he choked, "for saying that. Thank you."

/Thank you, thank you, thank you/

**TBC**

**A/N: **And well…did you like it :grins impishly: I'm afraid I have to claim this as another one of my favorite chapters. It's amazing some of the things you can come up with on the spur of the moment (and with the right inspiration :winks: ). Besides which, it's fun!

Only two more chapters to go (and that's including the Epilogue), and I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Next Chapter:** _Origins of Love_, taking place after the children's coronation.


	7. Origins of Love

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

**A/N:** Hey, everyone::grins and waves: Second to last chapter is up. Again, no Flashback at the very beginning (I just couldn't figure out a way to finagle it), but there _is_ a Flashback towards the middle. Enjoy!

**Reviewers:** All _96_ of you, thank you!

**Nighttime Demons:** I'm pleased to tell you (and hope you're glad to hear) that I'll be taking up _Nighttime Demons_ again as soon as I finish this story. Also, watch out in the final chapter :grins: There's going to be a teaser for a fic I'm planning on posting after I get some of _Nighttime Demons_ finished.

**Many Thanks:** _Kelsey Estel, Hermione Eveningfall, Boleyn, ohcEEcho, EllaJ.W, Capegio, A Amelia Black, Frangipanigirl, Stormythomas, Sara Wolfe, Morwen Pallanen, amidnightkiss, TimeMage0955, Tex110, Jenn1,_ and _Sera and Tails_

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

_**Memories**_

**Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.**

**.:Fever:.**

Chapter VII: Origins of Love

By Sentimental Star

(Early Morning the Next Day, Cair Paravel)

The cool sea breezes of early morning swept along the edifice of Cair Paravel as he stepped out onto the balcony of his room, tired, but not overly so. He would have expected the wind to be chilly, if it hadn't felt so deliciously good after a night of dancing.

Peter smiled slightly. Never let it be said that the Narnians did not know how to have a good time. Their subjects—such a funny thought, "their" subjects—had celebrated and cavorted well through yesterday night and into the early hours of morning, and had ensured their newly crowned monarchs had celebrated and cavorted, as well. To their hearts' content.

Never had the thirteen-year-old had such feasting, and he knew he wouldn't forget it anytime soon.

All four of the siblings, surprisingly, had lasted the entire coronation ball, and were only now beginning to go to bed. The girls had bid their brothers good-night—well, good morning, anyway—and headed to their rooms around half an hour ago.

Peter had not known where Edmund went, but he assumed it was to take a bath. In truth, he was a little concerned about his younger brother. His movements had been slightly slower than normal, and while Lucy's cordial had worked its wonders, the ten-year-old still seemed a bit sore.

The older boy sighed softly, walking over to the balcony's stone rail, and lightly dropped his chin onto his folded arms, gazing out at the sea. In the distance, the Eastern part of the gray sky was taking on a rosy hue.

He supposed it would take quite some time before he felt fully at ease about his younger brother's safety. Nearly having one's sibling die was not a thing easily forgotten, as he well knew. Particularly when said sibling was Edmund, who seemed likely to get into many more similar mishaps before their time here was through.

"You're going to be the death of me, Ed," he grumped good-naturedly. "Why is it always you?"

"Because trouble usually comes looking for me?" a voice piped up sheepishly from behind him.

A little startled, Peter straightened and turned to face the threshold between the balcony and his bedroom. He blinked, then smiled, "Ed, I thought you'd taken a bath and gone to bed. What are you doing out here?"

Edmund gave a slightly embarrassed smile, cheeks tinged faintly pink, and moved out onto the balcony, footsteps light. "Er…I wanted to say good-night?" he suggested hopefully, hefting himself up to sit on the railing facing Peter.

His older brother chuckled softly, touched. "You don't need to ask, you know, and it's actually good morning, I think."

"Well, good morning, then," Edmund murmured, heels feather-light as they tapped against the rail and eyes on his feet.

Peter cocked his head curiously, raising an eyebrow. "Ed?" He noted with interest that his little brother's blush deepened.

The thirteen-year-old's smile softened and his eyes danced as he thought to himself (privately, of course), that Edmund actually looked quite adorable at the moment.

He wisely choked back his laughter as another thought nudged itself up/He'd just about die if I told him that./

When the younger boy did not seem particularly forthcoming with anymore than a "good morning," Peter turned his attention back to the sea and the sunrise that was gradually lighting up the Eastern sky, waiting him out. Thoughts drifting. As had been a frequent occurrence since they had first heard of Narnia, those thoughts somehow managed to swerve themselves back to Edmund.

(Flashback, Three Years)

_The doctor had been puzzled. Sorely puzzled._

_Eddy who, after that first waking, had gradually been able to stay more and more awake, waited (rather impatiently) for the dozen-th test the doctor had run on him to be over. A small pout on his face clearly told his parents and Peter that he was starting to feel much better._

_Finally, with a sigh, the doctor took his stethoscope out of his ears and gently lowered the seven-year-old's pajama top. A thoughtful frown was on the man's face as he stood and began packing away his various instruments as Edmund watched with some interest._

"_I don't understand it, Mrs. Pevensie. Even though the penicillin and other antibiotics I prescribed seem to have worked well, his fever took a dangerous turn when he fell unconscious. According to all the research I've read, and all the conditions I've seen, he should have, at the very least, not woken so soon, if at all. He very well could have died," the gray-eyed adult advised, his inability to understand frustrating him enough that he was not quite so careful of what he said._

_Consequently, at those words, a small gasp came from their mother as their father's face paled slightly. Peter himself felt sick to his stomach. Had it really been so close?_

_Swallowing uncomfortably and feeling rather light-headed, he glanced at his brother beside him in the bed who had heard that last part and was now frowning slightly, watching the doctor._

_The doctor seemed to have realized what he said. Flushing slightly, he cleared his throat, "My apologies, I did not intend for that to come out as it did. I am just trying to make some sense of this, but I can't. This is nothing short of a miracle."_

_Apparently, Edmund did not like that explanation. "Nah-unh!" he exclaimed indignantly, drawing the adults' attention to him. "Not a miracle." He suddenly pointed to a very startled older brother. "Peter."_

_Peter felt his cheeks blaze at his little brother's simple, but heartfelt declaration, ducking his head and shyly peeking up through his wayward sandy-blond hair as everyone's attention shifted to him._

_A smile slowly spread across their father's face. "Now that wouldn't surprise me a bit," he remarked warmly, gently tussling his oldest son's hair. "Considering he has barely left his side."_

_Their mother laughed softly. "Yes, even when he was supposed to be in bed himself."_

_The doctor regarded Peter quietly for a moment, before a slow smile, echoing their father's, touched his lips. Suddenly, he winked, smile turning into a grin, "Still a miracle then, just in different packaging."_

_And while the grown-ups talked, Eddy grinned at him and snuggled into Peter's lap._

_The ten-year-old, not trusting himself to speak, slipped his arms around Edmund's waist and held him tight, pressing a kiss to the younger boy's forehead before resting his cheek on top of the younger boy's head._

(End Flashback)

"Peter."

His name broke into his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. The thirteen-year-old found himself back on the balcony at Cair Paravel with his ten-year-old brother still sitting beside him on the rail.

Shaking his head to clear it, he turned to the younger boy, slightly caught off guard, "Yes?"

Edmund glanced at him, biting his lip uncertainly, before looking down at his feet again. Hesitantly, he spoke up, "Yesterday, after the coronation…I meant to tell you, but we were so busy celebrating with everyone that I didn't get the chance."

Peter lifted his head, glancing narrow-eyed at his brother. "If this has something to do with the wine…"

That statement was so sudden that it surprised a laugh out of the younger boy, who gently swatted the thirteen-year-old's shoulder. "Yes, about that…" he began, eyes dancing.

His older brother made a face. "Well, how was _I_ supposed to know it was wine?"

"I don't know, perhaps the fact that it was served in a goblet?" Edmund teased warmly, voice mirthful.

Peter blushed slightly. "I thought it was juice!"

The younger boy started laughing. "You…you're hopeless, Peter," he gasped out a few moments later, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he started to calm down.

He expected his brother to come back with some witty remark, but only silence greeted him.

Puzzled, he turned and found Peter quietly watching him with a fond smile on his face.

"What?" Edmund asked with a small frown, feeling his cheeks beginning to sting.

The older boy merely shook his head, still smiling. "It's good to see you laughing again," he murmured.

The ten-year-old looked thoughtful at that, going back to lightly kicking his heels against the balcony. "It was Aslan, really," he finally replied, then shot something of a quirky grin at his older brother. "You and the girls some, too. Narnia and its—_our_ people—as well." He held out one of his hands, making sure the other still kept him balanced on the rail, and examined it closely. Softly, almost to himself, he remarked, "It's different here. Just…different. More magical, more peaceful, now that the Witch is gone. I don't think I would have gotten a second chance back at home—England, I mean."

Peter reached out and gently captured his younger brother's hand, smiling (a trifle sadly) when the other boy's slightly startled gaze fell on him again. "I'm glad you did, Ed," he answered quietly.

Edmund cocked his head somewhat, silently regarding the older boy. "I know," he said at last, pinning his brother with an indefinable look.

Under the steadiness of that gaze, the thirteen-year-old straightened, rather surprised. He blinked. "Ed?"

A tiny smile touched the younger boy's lips as he withdrew his hand from Peter's. For a moment, it seemed to the teenager his brother might hop off the rail and head back into the castle, but something stayed Edmund's retreat.

Unexpectedly, he reached out and gently brushed the older boy's bangs away from his face, keeping their eyes locked. "I meant to tell you after the coronation," he repeated quietly, picking up their earlier conversation, "but yesterday…when Mr. Tumnus put that crown on your head…you truly _did_ look Magnificent, Peter." The smile slipped, but affection still shone in his dark brown gaze, "I was so proud of you. Still am, actually. Never thought I'd say it, but it's true." He carefully leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to Peter's forehead, very, very softly whispering, "I love you."

As his older brother's breathing hitched, Edmund pulled back with a second shy smile into wide china blue eyes and quickly slid off the railing, a prominent blush on his cheeks. With a muttered "'Night" (in spite of the fact that it had already been established as morning), the ten-year-old hastily made for the threshold leading into Peter's room as the first rays of dawn suddenly broke out over the balcony.

He barely made it past his brother.

Peter recovered himself in enough time to swiftly grab his the other boy's hand, spinning around, "Ed, wait!"

Edmund halted, slightly tense and facing front, fingers entwined with Peter's. He said nothing.

The thirteen-year-old slowly drew the ten-year-old closer, back towards him. "You…you're really…you meant that?" he asked uncertainly, sounding horribly insecure.

The younger boy finally turned, shakily rolling his eyes. "Of course, you dolt," he managed, a trembling, uncertain grin on his lips. "Why else would I say it?"

Peter gave a tremulous smile in return and knelt on one knee in front of his little brother, keeping their hands tangled together. He hesitated at first, then lightly pushed back Edmund's lengthening bangs with his free hand, "I know," he whispered, "you…you just haven't said it…in a long time."

As guilt flashed in the younger boy's eyes and he dropped his gaze, Peter shook his head and moved his hands to frame his brother's face, tilting his chin back up. "I didn't say that to condemn you, Ed," he reprimanded softly. He cracked another grin. "Besides, aren't big brothers supposed to be the ones to tell their younger brothers how proud they are?"

Edmund gave a choked laugh. "Yes, well, the younger brother beat the older brother in this case, I'm afraid," he pointed out, voice thick.

Peter kept smiling, pulling the ten-year-old into a tight hug. The type only he (according to Edmund) could give. It was not as desperate as the hug on the battlefield had been two days ago, nor was it as bone-crushingly tight as the one he had trapped his younger brother in when the other boy had first returned to Aslan's camp.

This was Peter's real hug, and one neither of them had shared in well over a year.

But that didn't matter anymore. All that mattered today was that he had his little brother back. Today he could hold Edmund close and cherish it.

His brother's pride and, most of all, his brother's _love_ meant the world to him. Plus one thousand more.

**To Be Concluded…**

**A/N:** :groans slightly and rubs back of neck: That had to be one of the hardest chapters to write. And I'm not entirely sure why. :sighs: This didn't turn out quite like I had planned, but maybe that's just because I'm tired :makes a face:. Anyway, what did you think? I hope it's just as good as my other six.

One more chapter to go—the Epilogue—and then I'll be finished. Hmm…I might try to post again on Sunday (since I know a few people are going to poke and prod me 'til I do :winks: ), but no promises. It's actually more likely to be up this coming week, but we'll see. Please keep an eye out all the same!

**Next Chapter (Epilogue)**: _Origins of Change_, taking place after the children return to England.


	8. Origins of Change

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis. Reminder: some dialogue belongs to Disney and Walden Media.

**A/N:** And so _Fever_ comes to a close. I sincerely hope you enjoyed every minute of it, and enjoy this last chapter just as much as all the others!

**Reviewers:** All _109_ of you, thank you!

**Many Thanks:** _A Amelia Black, Morwen Pallanen, TimeMage0955, Jenn1, Hermione Eveningfall, Boleyn, ohcEEcho, Capegio, Kelsey Estel, Tarien Lakilea Tel'anor, Sara Wolfe, Tex110,_ and _Sera and Tails_

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

_**Memories**_

**Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.**

**.:Fever:.**

Epilogue: Origins of Change

By Sentimental Star

(England, Evening, Fifteen Narnian Years Later)

_He'd become used to Lucy's adventurous nature over the years. She wasn't called Queen Lucy the Valiant for nothing, and though he could never quite stop worrying about her, he knew (now at least) that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. All of his siblings were, actually. And that hadn't been an easy thing to accept, but accept it, he finally had._

_So when sightings of the White Stag in Lantern Waste had been reported, Peter wasn't terribly surprised when Lucy rushed off to find Edmund and Susan, an excited gleam in her eyes. Nor was he terribly surprised to find them standing with their mounts out in the courtyard a mere half hour later._

_And he couldn't say he was oblivious to the thrill of adventure today, either._

_They had been riding for well over an hour now, ever trying to keep the White Stag in their sights. It was autumn, and the Dryads seemed to have put forth their richest colors yet to accompany their monarchs on this ride. The sun shone brightly overhead, but though the day was gorgeous, Peter couldn't help but feel a sort of unease at the back of his mind. Like something was going to happen. Like something was going to change._

_When Edmund, who had before been racing neck and neck with him, suddenly fell back, behind even the girls, and out of sight, his unease shot up a notch._

_He about turned his horse companion quickly, calling over to his oldest sister, "Su, did you see where Ed stopped?"_

_Susan and Lucy hurriedly followed his example, steering their mounts in the same direction as his._

_They weren't terribly alarmed, he knew. If he had to be honest, neither was he. Not by much, anyway. But one thing that assuredly had **not** changed over the years was the fact that Edmund, in spite of all his indignant protests, remained the one sibling of the four of them whom they all felt the need to be particularly protective of. His dance with death had not been forgotten by any of them, even all these long years later._

_Thankfully, they just had to round a copse and found him with Philip in a small clearing not too far from Mr. Tumnus's cave._

_Susan smirked. "Come on, Ed."_

_Edmund looked up at her with a small smile, gently patting Philip's neck. "Just catching my breath."_

"_Well, that's all we'll catch at this rate!" she exclaimed, grin widening._

_Lucy joined in, eyes twinkling merrily. "What did he say again, Susan?"_

"'_You girls stay at the castle, I'll get the stag myself,'" the older of their two sisters mimicked warmly, deepening her voice to match Edmund's._

_The younger of the two men gave her a sheepish smile, continuing to pet Philip's neck._

_The two women started laughing and Peter chuckled softly, though he carefully surveyed his brother, not saying anything, just to make sure he really **was** all right. The reason for his stopping soon became clear._

_Philip was breathing rather heavily._

_The older of the two men's own smile softened. /Just like you, Ed/ he thought fondly._

_Peter's eyes, however, suddenly fell on the most intriguing contraption which had appeared as if from thin air, metal, black, and with a lantern set on top of it and ivy winding around its trunk. Directly in the middle of the clearing._

"_What's this?" he asked in amazement, dismounting and looking up at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He supposed it made sense that there was a lantern, this, after all, **was** Lantern Waste. He could even see why it was called as such. But a lantern **tree**/How peculiar…/ he thought with an inward frown, the unease he felt heightening somewhat._

_Vaguely, he heard his siblings dismount and gather around him. All three looking up with equally uncertain, puzzled expressions. He felt a little vindicated when he noticed Edmund looked just as uneasy as he._

_Susan frowned a bit. "It seems like a dream…" she murmured._

"_Or a dream of a dream," Lucy added, voice quiet. She appeared to be thinking hard. Suddenly, something seemed to connect and her eyes lit. "Spare Oom…" she whispered, glancing at her siblings._

_The three other monarchs gave her startled looks._

_She did not answer, picking up her skirts and beginning to run._

_Peter started, automatically running after her. "Lu?"_

"_Not again," Susan grumbled, picking up her own skirts and following._

"_Lu!" Edmund called after her, on Susan's heels._

_Lucy turned back to face them and tossed a mischievous grin over her shoulder. "Come on!"_

_It was all Peter could do to not sigh in exasperation. Fond as he was of his youngest sister, her own delight in adventures had gotten her (and them) into more scrapes than he cared to count._

_This promised to be much of the same._

_The trees grew denser. Soon, they were not trees at all._

_Peter blew his hair out of his eyes in irritation. "These aren't branches…" he muttered. Then gave a surprised "umpf" as one of the…furry things swung back and collided with his face. He nearly toppled into Lucy who was struggling her way through the…_

"_Coats," Susan murmured, "they're coats!"_

_Right. Coats. How could he have forgotten?_

_What happened next, he could never really be sure. He abruptly couldn't see anymore, and there was the strangest sensation—like his limbs were almost…compacting. But it didn't hurt. It didn't hurt at all, actually._

_He put his arms up, shoving the coats out of his way. But still, he couldn't see._

_Unexpectedly, Susan's elbows collided with his back and he gave a startled yelp, stumbling forward and noting dimly that his voice sounded rather…odd._

"_Susan, you're on my foot!" he heard Edmund grump. He thought his crown had been knocked askew._

"_I'm not **on** your toes!" she exclaimed in frustration. He noticed she sounded quite queer, too, almost like a young girl._

_Then suddenly she was gone and Edmund shoulder accidentally collided with his and he went flying forward into Lucy, who seemed quite a bit smaller than she ought to be._

_Somehow in the confusion that was the next several moments, Edmund managed to end up in front of him, and between he and Lucy, while Susan ended up tightly gripping the back of his…wasn't he wearing a jerkin before?_

_But there wasn't any more time to wonder or to speculate because suddenly all four of them were flying forward and out of the door of the…wardrobe. That was it. And into the spare room, toppling onto the floor with various "Oofs!"_

_Peter coughed, winded, before scrambling to his knees…and gasping as his eyes fell on what he was wearing. Not comfortable Narnian hunting attire, but his old clothes. Ones he thought ages and ages ago gone—his cotton trousers, suspenders, and long-sleeved shirt._

_And there was Edmund beside him on the floor, ten again, and Lucy, eight again. And Susan behind Lucy, twelve again. And then he remembered, quite clearly, that he was Peter Pevensie, from Finchley, England. Oldest of four children, son of Helen and Colin Pevensie, whom he called Mum and Dad. And that Dad was off fighting a war in the Queen's name across the English Channel, and that he wasn't a king here, but a thirteen-year-old evacuee._

_Then his siblings were through examining themselves and looked at him and each other. And before any of them could even suggest climbing back into the wardrobe, the door to the spare room slowly creaked open, and all four remembered that they had gotten into quite a spot of trouble with a game called cricket, and that was why they had come here in the first place._

_No scowling, storming housekeeper entered the room, however. Just the Professor with an extraordinary little twinkle in his eyes. "Oh! There you are!" he smiled knowingly. "What were you all doing in the wardrobe?"_

_Peter glanced back at his siblings, a sheepish smile on his lips, before turning to the Professor. "You wouldn't believe us…if we told you, sir."_

_The Professor raised an eyebrow, suddenly looking remarkably like Aslan. "Try me," he replied, another smile slowly working its way across his face as he lightly tossed the cricket ball to Peter._

_All the siblings' eyes followed it, before the four sets returned to the Professor's and four identical grins appeared on their lips._

Peter sighed, and gently tossed the cricket ball into the air. Caught it…and tossed it. Caught it…and tossed it.

Nighttime had fallen. The clock down the hall had struck ten o'clock. He was on his bed now, in his nightclothes, and waiting for Edmund to return from the bathroom.

He lay on his back, an arm folded behind his head, the other held up to catch the ball he had been tossing for the past several minutes.

It was so…strange…being back here, in England. The colors seemed duller somehow, less friendly. No fantastical creatures or faithful subjects living in the woods, rivers, valleys, dales, and sea beyond castle walls. No great, golden Lion to drop in every now and again when help was most needed.

He even now felt like he was trying to hang onto a dream, although it still felt so terribly, awfully real at the same time.

It had to be real. Something like that just _couldn't_ be make-believe…could it? Bored war-time children they may be, but certainly…surely…their imaginations couldn't come up with something like _that_. And certainly not Aslan. Aslan wasn't something you could just…come up with.

And the Professor had believed them. That had to count for something, didn't it?

There was an abrupt dip in the mattress, and Edmund's cheerful face, strange in its boyish appearance, entered his line of vision.

"Brooding, O High King?" he teased warmly, grinning as a startled Peter missed his last toss and the cricket ball came tumbling down into his stomach, eliciting an "uf" of air from the older boy.

Peter scowled slightly at the hovering face, before sighing again and lightly shoving the ball off him. It rolled across the bed and dropped with a muffled thump on the floor. Neither boy really noticed. "Was it real, Ed?" he asked—very, very quietly—after a few minutes.

Edmund went still, looking thoughtful, and his grin faded. There was another few moments of silence before he finally replied, voice low and deliberate, eyes dark with ghosts that had never quite disappeared, "It has to be, Peter. Aslan would say we just have to trust in what we cannot see, and Lucy…you know how much faith she holds. We have to keep that faith, like her, even if there's no material proof. But if you want some sort of evidence, think of what's inside. We've all changed, Peter. Me most of all, I know. I used to be an absolute beast, and a traitor in the worst--"

"Don't!" the older boy ordered sharply. Abruptly, he sat up, pressing both his hands against his younger brother's mouth and cutting off whatever else the ten-year-old had been intending to say. The thirteen-year-old softened his voice, "Don't, Ed. You aren't a traitor anymore. If you ever really were…" He slowly lowered his hands.

Edmund bit his bottom lip, a sort of half-smile flitting across his face and eyes overly bright in the electric lighting. He leaned forward and gently pressed his forehead to his older brother's, smiling into familiar china blue eyes. "Look at us, too, Peter," he murmured, brushing back his older brother's hair. "Look at how far we've come, how close we've gotten again. That's not something a simple game or make-believe can fix. You've been there for my entire life, including Narnia, and I'm perfectly happy to have you there for another lifetime."

Peter finally smiled, brilliant and genuine, his own shadows receding for the time being. "Thanks," he whispered.

The younger boy smiled fully, kissing his older brother's forehead, and stood, quietly padding over to the light switch. A lit candle already sat on the nightstand beside the thirteen-year-old's bed, placed there by Edmund.

When the electric lights were snapped off, the ten-year-old more or less fumbled his way back over to the older boy's bed. Gently, he prodded his brother in the side, "Scootch," he muttered.

"Ed?" startlement laced Peter's voice, but he nonetheless obliged.

Edmund slipped into the rather large bed beside him underneath the covers, lying down, before grinning up at the other boy, arms folded behind his head. "Well, you couldn't very well expect me _not_ to sleep next to you when you've been brooding for the past fifteen or twenty minutes, now could you?" The smile slipped, and the brown eyes darkened apprehensively, as he mumbled, "'Sides, I'd rather head off the nightmares while I can, and so much the better if it's for both of us. I guarantee you Lucy will be snuggling in with Susan tonight, and that Su won't object."

In spite of the statement, Peter smiled slightly. "They already share the same bed, Ed," he remarked softly.

Edmund merely blinked up at him. "Your point being…?"

Peter's eyes positively lit as he heard what his brother had _not_ said.

Edmund, noticing this, scowled playfully, shifting onto his side to face the thirteen-year-old. "Of _course_ you're happy we're back to our proper Earth ages," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Why wouldn't you be? You're able to mollycoddle us all you want now."

Peter grinned, lying down beside the other boy and putting his arms around him. "I _am_ actually kind of glad, Ed," he admitted softly. "Makes it much easier to hug you this way."

The ten-year-old snorted quietly, not objecting terribly much. If snuggling against his older brother's chest and closing his eyes with a content sigh could be considered "objecting."

The two boys were silent for a few minutes, drifting contentedly among their own private thoughts and the mutual feel of familiarity and comfort, before Peter spoke up again, gently stroking his brother's hair, voice low, "I think we'll be all right, Ed. All of us. So long as we have each other."

There was a second, rather more sleepy snort, "Took you long enough to figure out," he mumbled.

Peter laughed softly, shaking his head. "As long as I have you," the older boy amended quietly, "I _know_ I'll be all right."

His only answer was Edmund's reassuring sleep-breathing.

"Of course," the thirteen-year-old muttered, smiling, "you'll never be awake to hear me say that."

Lifting his head momentarily from the pillow, Peter blew out the candle. With a final, tender grin down at the sleeping ten-year-old and a dropped kiss, he rested his head on the pillow and shut his eyes. A tightening of his arms and a few minutes later, his own breathing matched the cadence of his little brother's.

(Flashback, Three Years—Earth Time)

_Their parents hadn't wanted to disturb them. After all, older and younger brother looked entirely too comfortable, and entirely too adorable, sleeping together in the rather large bed, to bother._

_Peter's arms were tangled around Eddy's waist, and held him with an almost desperate sort of tightness in sleep, speaking of fears and responsibilities only newly realized._

_The following week, Mr. Pevensie would be summoned for military training, as rumors of a potential war flew like wildfire from country to country. He would still be able to come home frequently, still be able maintain his job at the university, but would remain on call._

_Two years later, he would be ordered overseas (or, in this case, the English Channel) and forced to leave behind his wife and children._

_Three years later, the four siblings would be sent to the house of an elderly Professor in the country because of the air-raids._

_But none of that was known on this particular evening. All that was known was the two girls would be brought home tomorrow, and Eddy put through what the doctor had called "de-contaminisation." And for the moment, even those events did not matter._

_For now, what mattered was simply the fact that two fevers had broken—one potentially deadly, the other not so—and that both brothers slept soundly through the night._

(End Flashback)

**The End!**

**A/N:** To all my readers, and all my reviewers, thank you so much for your feedback and the attention paid to this story! I sincerely hope you enjoyed this because I enjoyed writing it!

All the Best,

Sentimental Star

**Preview of an Upcoming Fic:**

_**Title:** Those Who Speak_

_**Summary:** _Edmund never met the White Witch. He found out about her from Mr. Tumnus on Lucy's second visit. He's also mute--Book and Moviebased.

**_Commentary:_** Not quite your typical revision of _LWW_. As for when I'll begin to post it—probably not until April, when I have the actual DVD. But for now, I'll give you a brief excerpt:

_Prologue: The Stolen Voice_

_(Four Years Ago)_

"_I'm afraid there's nothing to be done," the doctor's voice was muffled behind the door against which the three siblings had pressed themselves. "Only a miracle will be able to restore it. The fever has stolen his voice. As of right now, Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie, your son will be unable to speak. Take him to any physician or therapist you wish, and they will all tell you the same. The fever has too badly damaged his vocal chords. I'm sorry."_

_There was a few long, awful seconds of silence, and then the three children heard the doctor's footsteps crossing the floor of their six-year-old brother's room to the door._

_As the wooden door was pulled open, and the last of the doctor's orders were given, nine-year-old Peter, eight-year-old Susan, and four-year-old Lucy (courtesy of her older sister) all hastily stumbled away from the entrance._

_The doctor emerged from the room only moments later, tall and daunting and terrifying dressed in his dark gray overcoat. At least to Peter who, as the oldest, understood the entire conversation far better than his parents undoubtedly would have liked._

_His baby brother, **mute**? Impossible!_

_But as the doctor caught sight of the three siblings standing close together in the upstairs hall, varying degrees of fright in their eyes, and quickly turned away, Peter felt a leaden weight settle in his stomach._

Please keep an eye out, as well as for the next chapter of _Nighttime Demons_!


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